


Daydreamer

by zanni_scaramouche



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Architect Harry Styles, Artist Zayn Malik, Football | Soccer Player Louis Tomlinson, Harry-centric, M/M, Many things are NOT TAGGED, Nick and Harry friendship, No Smut, a wild James Corden, and Ny Oh, enter with caution please, it's a beautiful thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_scaramouche
Summary: Architect Harry Styles is in the midst of the project that will make or break his career, the same one that definitely broke his marriage. As he struggles with impending divorce he is plagued with visions of fairytale love falling to pieces.I had a dreamI got everything I wanted, Not what you'd thinkAnd if I'm being honest, It might've been a nightmareA love story.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings on this piece. PLEASE be aware of that. I did not tag anything that would give away the story, which includes a LOT( a l o t ) If you have any concerns or questions feel free to message me on tumblr and I will be happy to answer. 
> 
> Don’t forget, I have no beta reader. So there are undoubtedly mistakes and inconsistencies and please please please tell me if you see them. Hey, also. Dialogue is hard ): (especially Zayn like wtf dude never speaks! speech pattern?? He doesn’t HAVE one!) 
> 
> Architects: I don’t know what you do. I’m sorry I butchered your career. I just wanted to write fic :/ suspension of disbelief! 
> 
> Sports players: I took some… liberties. Especially with certain dates about certain events. ~~fiction is a magical thing!
> 
> Yesterday I did three sets of yoga, a ballet class, and baked banana bread and blueberry muffins. Today I am eating Kraft Dinner out of a mug and have been writing fanfiction in my PJ’s for seven hours. Variety! It’s the spice of life! 
> 
> Honestly, I just hope this makes sense.

The glint catches his eye in the mirror. 

Two years and its presence on his finger has become a part of him like the tattoos on his skin. Now one accidental glimpse while buttoning his shirt and his whole body freezes, so hypersensitive to the warmed white gold he’s convinced he can feel engraved words pressing into his skin. Only one other ring like his in the world and he hasn't seen sight of it in over a week. His breath stutters at the high possibility its sitting cold somewhere, tossed aside and unworn. Beneath his fingers the cream fabric has creased. He murmurs a curse and undoes the buttons he’s worked into the wrong holes to start fresh from the bottom. 

There are gaps around him in the double closet. He tries not to list every piece missing, but the floor beneath him is worn from the years he’s dressed in this exact spot and the holes are as apparent as puzzle pieces removed from a finished picture. The favourite shorts gone from the neat pile on the third shelf down, any empty hanger meant for the fleece with faded cuffs, the oldest pair of white trainers gone like knocked out teeth in the lineup at his feet. Things owned before they met. 

Navy blue cotton hangs boldly in the coveted spot of first hung on the rack like a big middle finger. It’s always been tossed over furniture or the floor since being unwrapped that first Christmas, rumpled and soft with age when Harry habitually rested his face on the solid shoulders beneath it. Now the jumper hangs neatly and, he discovered during a low point, smells of laundry soap for the first time in its life. 

Using rough jabs Harry tucks in his shirt with his eyes cast at the crisp white paint of the ceiling. Beneath his hands his stomach swells with a steadying breath. Then another. He rests his hands on his hips and lets his eyes slip closed. Personal breakdowns can be rescheduled, today is already booked with meeting the most important man of his life. He makes a futile effort to smooth down the front of his shirt with his right hand, tucks a curl out of his way with the left so he doesn’t have to look at it. 

From the row of shoes opposite of the missing trainers he grabs glossed leather shoes. They slide on effortlessly and peek out from his favourite coloured trousers, the ones with the bottom hint of flare he’s usually teased for but no one’s here to say anything today so he’ll wear what he likes, thank you very much. 

The apartment is silent in morning stillness, not unusual when there’s early practice, but it’s the stuffy air of a museum that makes his skin crawl. The unsettling neatness of the blinding white linen on the unused bed makes it feel like a display piece, it’s looming presence weighing him down with memories of hours spent laughing, cuddling, sweating between the sheets. His shoes click on the hardwood in rushed steps throughout empty halls as he tries to outrun phantom hands on his skin. 

The lights are off, he hasn't bothered to turn them on when the gloom of cloudy morning light seeping in through the half shaded windows is enough to cast things into hazy silhouettes, and his gaze stays on the ground in front of him. He grabs the jacket from it’s resting place on the armchair and marches unsteadily out of the door.

Grasping for something, anything, he hums a tune from last night's radio show in an effort to ease his mind. Another futile effort. The meeting is in an hour, if he’s lucky traffic will pull his mind out of itself and he can always do an extra loop around the office if he needs to ignore the uncomfortable choking feeling he’s had for the last week. The vivid dreams aren’t helping, in half of them he’s drowning and the other half he’s falling. Too many times he’s waked drenched in sweat and choking on his own tongue. 

His humming is cut off by a yawn that stretches his face wide and he rolls his neck after, blinking hard and widening his eyes to roll off the tiredness. He’s only been away from his desk for a handful of hours, most of the night spent triple checking every detail of the project for today’s presentation. It’s all set up, he just needs to walk in with a strong handshake and a charming smile to win over the client and seal the deal. He’s charming as hell. He’s got this. 

By the time he climbs into the glossy black Range Rover and sinks into familiar leather he ‘s set his jaw, a mantra on repeat in his mind like it’ll stick if he thinks it enough times. 

Today is a new day. He can be a new Harry. 

x

The last notes of a dastardly off key ‘Happy Birthday’ fade out from the living room and Harry feels a twinge of guilt for missing it as he ducks out of the loo, selfishly thankful he’s not been caught on camera chiming in with the rest of the guests. The party’s been nice, if a little dull. He’s still getting to know the host and he doesn’t recognize a single face in the crowd. It’s been a good change of pace to stop hunching over graph paper and computer screens, but tomorrow he’ll return to the monotonous rhythm of wake-work-sleep his life has fallen into. The only reason he knows the date is from file saving. 

He pokes his head in the well-stocked kitchen out of curiosity and a lack of anything better to do and snags a beer from the counter. It’s luke warm and disgusting. His face is pinched in disgust at the first mouthful when a laugh pulls his focus to a man beside him reaching for his own bottle. 

“Oi, least it’s free?” 

Harry narrowly avoids choking as he forces the swill down and tries to keep breathing at the sight of the guy in front of him. Instantly his skin is tacky with sweat and, good god, he’s shaking like he’s got a fever. How is he already such a mess? Luckily the guy hasn’t noticed Harry’s minor meltdown, too distracted hunting down the bottle opener to pop his cap off. Harry watches every movement of his fingers avidly, the way they wrap comfortably around glass. A wild guffaw bursts out of him as the guy's whole face crinkles in repulsion from his first sip. 

“Shite, nevermind,” He chuckles with a Yorkshire slant. 

The man sets his beer down on the counter to scoot it behind the rest of unopened bottles lined up and Harry doesn’t feel too bad about doing the same. Awkwardly he crams his hands into his tight trouser pockets to avoid reaching out for a handshake or something more idiotic like enveloping the stranger in a hug just to feel the heat of his body. His throat goes dry at just the thought. He needs to learn some control, damn it.

Somehow he manages to fumble through introductions and soon they’ve made a game of it, tucked inconspicuously in the corner of the kitchen talking about a sport Harry could never hope to play without injury and waiting for the perfect moment unsuspecting guests pick up a bottle. The reactions are priceless. More than once they're both overwhelmed with giggles and lean into each other for support while struggling to breathe. Gleeful blue eyes squint so much they’re almost shut as the guy bites on the cuff of his sleeve to muffle his laughter. Harry’s having a hard time looking away from chapped lips and hints of stubble.

“You’d think they’d learn from each other,” Harry stage whispers while they watch a group of lads take a miserable first sip one after another. 

“Saw you swallow and I still did it, didn’ I?”

Harry bites down on the inside of his cheek. He uses too much focus on holding back the first inappropriate thought that comes to mind and not enough on finding the right way to respond, so he just pushes his hair out his face if only for something to do with his hands. The little shit just laughs at Harry’s flustered state. 

It might be a little obvious the way his touch lingers on the shorter man’s shoulder or the inward curve of his body. There are excuses if he needs them. It’s loud and Harry doesn’t want to miss a word of winding stories that don’t always lead to an end but still make his stomach clench with laughter. Never mind most of the noise if coming from the rest of the house and the kitchen remains a relatively quiet oasis. 

He’s had a few drinks. Maybe they were at the beginning of the evening and there weren’t more than two of them since he still plans on driving home. But he could say these things honestly, if he needed to. He doubts he will when every moment he leans closer he’s rewarded with a smile so perfect it’s a punch to the gut. Harry’s been a goner since the moment their eyes met. Without any sign to restrain himself he pushes closer inch by inch, watching the smile grow until the night comes to a close and he stops looking for a reason to hold back at all. 

They wind up squished together in the doorway and Harry’s shrugging on his coat while the man layers on a jean jacket. There’s no reason for them to be so close their limbs keep brushing against together in the tight space, but they are, and Harry feels like puking butterflies every time he tries to open his mouth. He’s wrapping a scarf around his neck when the man beside him loses balance putting his shoes on and reaches out to save himself, but instead of the wall his hand finds Harrys’ stomach, hot through the thin layer of his shirt, and Harry jolts like he’s been revived with a defibrillator. 

The heat is removed quickly once the shoe is on and they chuckle it out but the sound coming from Harry’s mouth is tight. He puts his own hand over the tingling spot on his tummy. The thing is, there’s a glint in those blue eyes, has been all night, and Harry doesn’t believe for a second the touch was an accident. It gives him the courage to smooth his voice out long enough to speak just as the man is pulling the door open. 

“I know a place with good beer.” He licks his lips and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “If you’re interested, I could show you round.”

Eye contact is impossible so he looks at the man’s loosely tied shoes, the door past his shoulder, the mirror on the wall where he sees a smile that does nothing to slow the hammering of his pulse. 

“Don’t be lyin’, I got good tastes so whatever it is better blow my mind.”

Harry can’t stop the flush heating his face as he holds back another innuendo, but his competitive streak sparks. 

“I’m up to the challenge.”

They exchange numbers on the walk out and it should not set off a parade in Harry’s chest but he can feel a goofy grin splitting his face as they make plans for later in the week. The man teases him just as they part separate ways on the sidewalk. 

“Really left it to the last minute, there. Was worried I’d have to slip a note in your pocket.” 

“You could've said something,” Harry pokes back, embarrassed by how obvious he’s been all night and how thrown he still is everytime he glances over. It’s been so long since he’s done this, so long he can hardly remember it, but surely not every first encounter was this overwhelming. 

“Nah, then there’s no risk involved. Had to earn it.” 

It’s said with a cheeky wink and Harry can’t think of anything he wouldn’t do to earn another one. His fingers tap on the steering wheel the entire drive home, random bubbles of laughter spill from his lips. Surely it’s too soon, but he’s already squirming in his seat thinking about how agonizing the next five days will be knowing what lies at the end of them. The jitters remind him of the rush of falling.

x

The Range Rover slides into its designated spot with grace perfected by muscle memory, the smooth motion the perfect ending to a calming drive. As a child his sister Gemma used to tease him for falling asleep as soon as the car started moving. It’s continued to be his way to escape his mind, like his thoughts are radio chatter he can drown out with enough horse power. 

A phone call jumps up on the bluetooth before he can pull the engine. It’s a jarring reminder. He squints his eyes, will it be more painful brushing off questions live or having to listen to a message he can’t interrupt? On the fourth ring his thumb flicks answer.

He keeps the engine running and barely gets in a word of greeting before she spiels off with the words he was waiting for and informs him about the goings on back home. Harry counts the beats between the windshield wipers gliding across the glass, mindlessly focussing on the rain slowly distorting his vision over and over only to be wiped clean in a well timed cycle. The ragged sound of rubber being dragged backwards nearly drowns out her question asked at half the volume she’d been speaking in before, like she knows she should ask but doesn’t want to. 

“I’m fine, mum,” He responds automatically and cringes at the lie. 

“Did you two sort it out? Is he back home?”

“We haven’t really talked since… “ He stares at the bold plaque stating this spot was reserved for ‘HARRY E. STYLES’. A dizzying wave of relief washes through him, suddenly thankful they decided not to change names. Raindrops quickly blur out his name and he clears his throat. “He’s still staying with Liam.”

His mum, bless her, gives him mercy. 

“Liam’s such a lovely friend for you two. Is he still with that girl? The blond one. She made those cookies they sent us for Christmas, you remember?”

Harry rolls his eyes. He’d be hard pressed to come up with the number of girls Liam’s been through since the Holidays, let alone their hair. Liam himself probably couldn’t name each one. 

“Not sure. Listen, I’ve just pulled into work.”

“Okay, hun.” There’s a moment he could hang up, but he knows his mum. He closes his eyes and knocks his head back on the head rest to wait for whatever it is she really called to say. “You will talk to him soon, yeah?”

“I dunno mum,” he says with more of a waver than he expected. He picks at his nail polish, then mentally curses himself because he needs to stay presentable for today. “This project is taking off, and there’s a game coming up in Paris. Might be sec until we sit down.” 

His mother hums in unapproving agreement, the way only mothers can, “All right. Follow your heart, love. It’ll know what to do.” 

She means well, but Harry’s pretty sure following his heart is exactly what got him into this mess.

“Bye mum.”

A punch of a button shuts the car off and he shoves himself out of the seat to escape its confinement. Outside the rain starts to soak his shoulders while the suffocating feeling remains. He hunches into the weather, grimacing at the splitting chill of the wind down the collar of his coat. With every step he tries to focus on the wet pavement beneath him to shake the vertigo that’s plagued him since the disorientation of waking on the couch. 

Naomi calls out from the front desk as he passes but he’s too caught up on everything his mother’s phone call stirred up. Once upon a time there’d been exciting things to look forward to in Paris. Now he’s sure to spend the week in the office refining final drafts. By the time he realises he should have responded to the secretary he’s long past her station so he keeps moving forward, she’ll stop by if it’s important. Heavy glass gives way under his palm in time with a sigh of relief as he takes his first step into his office. It’s glass and steel with elegant cold LED lights better to see fine lines under, an impersonal world he is grateful to sink into. 

His moment of relief is cut short by a glance at the clock. He’s late, today of all days, and damn lucky his client isn’t already waiting for him. 

Harry pushes his curls back, his touch disrupting them from their previously perfectly tousled state to bounce back into his face. His hair is too short, he’s never liked it when it’s impossible to keep behind his ears, but he’d been convinced by a certain someone at the last barber visit. With a bit more force he uses both hands to press it back again and hopes there’s enough product to keep it there. 

The incessant buzz of his phone plies for his attention, something he should have seen coming, and he’s quick to flick it to silent and tuck it away. In a familiar stance he places his hands on his hips while standing in front of the floor to ceiling window taking up the back wall. He closes his eyes instead of staring at the expanse of clouds he’d been stunned by on his first day. He takes his hundredth deep breath of the morning. 

When he opens his eyes they’re sharp and keen. Eagerly he turns to the large display table he’d stressed over in the late hours of the night and scans the designs he’s slaved over for the better part of a year. Every measurement decimal is exactly the way he remembers leaving it. He’s fucking good at what he does. Pulling back from the gritty details his eyes coast along the shape of the plans, it’s wide open concept with smooth lines curving through the space to flow one area into another. Each element is unique, some bold, some minimized to keep from overwhelming and let the statements speak for themselves. It’s going to be stunning. 

A double-tap knock pulls his attention away. The man in the doorway has dark locks less tamed than Harry’s curls and his loose t-shirt is most definitely inside out. There is only one person he could be. 

“Harry, right?”

“Yes, welcome Mr. Malik.” Harry’s limbs feel too long, his hand too large when he offers it for a casual handshake.

The artist is younger than Harry's imagined, but people tend to say the same about himself. They’ve been in contact throughout the entire process, mostly via email to better send attached visuals than Harry could ever describe over a phone call. Given his own profession and the personal nature of the building it had been surprising how little direction the artist gave. The bigger the name the bigger the ego, and his work was so well known you couldn’t avoid it walking down the street. T-shirts and keychains and posters in storefronts, everywhere you looked there was a Malik. 

“Zayn is good, I’ll go by Mr. Malik when I have an identity crisis and not a moment before.”

Harry’s harsh chuckle is a little more than the statement deserves, unable to silence the thoughts on what a crisis is possible of making you do. 

“It’s been a pleasure to take on this project,” he says with a gesture to his night's work on the table, “would you like to dive in?”

“Sure.” Zayn shrugs, obvious comfort in his loose shoulders and easy smile while Harry guides them through the design.

Zayn’s seen it all, but there’s something rather different about the physical plans in your hands and laying them together that can’t be imitated by any genius software. Harry’s voice eases into a rhythmic cadence within less than a minute, consumed with pride at showing off the work and even greater, the easy way in which Zayn follows along and prompts questions Harry confidently has the answers for. 

This project is the largest scale Harry’s ever worked with, budget and build size. If all goes well Zayn could be living in an award winning home and Harry will be catapulted into stardom of his own. There are tweaks to be made, just as he knew there would be, and the flow of the meeting seamlessly breaks down from a presentation into a communal effort of ideas and feedback. Harry feeds off of Zayn’s reactions, using his presence to see the work through new eyes. 

Harry’s not sure if it’s an artist thing or a Zayn thing, the way the coffee stains on the hem of his shirt and uneven stubble manage to create dazzling charm. He’s heard stories, like you do on any artist, about the tantrums and fits of rampant emotion. In fact most sources say the man’s been unreachable since the unveiling of his most provoking piece. Harry took a glance at it when he earned Zayn as a client, after all the fuss it honestly seemed like a rather boring painting. Despite his supposed seclusion he’s been answering Harry’s emails and that’s all that really matters, but Harry still struggles to picture this calm man in rumpled clothing as the unruly storm people proclaim defines Zayn Malik.

“As the most recent email mentioned the last of the permits have gone through with the city. Given the adjustments we continue to make don’t impede on the core structure, construction may proceed once the ink is dry.” 

“Perfect,” Zayn says simply and sits back in one of six overly ergonomic chairs around the table with the same agreeable quirk of his lips he’s had since the beginning of the morning. 

He’s comfortable enough to speak his opinion and mild mannered enough to be reasoned with when it’s clear Harry’s made a decision based on the knowledge he has as a professional. Friendly enough to sit in amiable silence while they sip freshly brewed mid-morning tea to give their minds and eyes a break. Harry’s leaning against the window behind his desk lost in pleasant relief the easy working relationship between him and Zayn has transferred well from email correspondence to in person when he catches sight of the small silver frame.

The picture is two mouths of shiny teeth on display with laughter, crinkles by both of their eyes as they press their cheeks together, fresh white gold glinting in the sunlight. He’d debated putting the photo in a drawer earlier in the week. It was such a happy moment though and despite everything he’s kind of glad he kept it up as he hides a small smile behind the teacup he’s holding mostly to warm his fingers. 

“Mr. Styles?” 

He looks over the rim to the scruffy blond, the secretary with a loud personality who’s never called him anything but Harry since the day they swapped nail polish. There’s a grim tone to her face instead of the boisterous expressions he’s used to. Harry sets his cup on the desk. 

“Just a moment,” he murmurs to Zayn, unsure if the man even notices anything but the screen of his phone. 

He steps onto the other side of the frosted glass that makes up his office walls and automatically takes the packet of paper handed to him. 

She won't meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Harry. It was left in the mail slot.”

The file is thick and sealed, nothing to give it away but his name scrawled in a hand he’s used to seeing on notes stuck to the fridge. At the bottom there's a small lump, the perfect outline of a circle pressed into the envelope. For a long moment he can’t breathe, sound and air sucked out of the universe as time freezes. His thumb presses over the ridge of the circle, a perfect size nine if he had to guess, but he doesn’t need to. His stomach starts to revolt.

“Please tell Mr. Malik we’ll have to reschedule. I… “ he licks his lips, pushes down the bile in the back of his throat. The hand holding the papers shakes. “I feel ill.”

Blindly he takes off, barrelling towards the loo. Clammy fingers take a few fumbled attempts to tear into the envelope. It takes some work to tip out the contents, papers with words he can’t read. He doesn’t need to. The ring, the twin to his own sitting in his palm, says everything. He drops it all like it’s laced with acid.

When he’s finished spilling everything his stomach has to give he sits back against the cool wall by the basin. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck and collects in every crease, unbuttoning his shirt to his navel has helped nothing and his hair is starting to spike at the ends where they cling to his face. He knew it was coming, but it’s quite different to think about things in abstract than it is to have physical proof of failure. 

Fuck. Four years, for this? Throwing up on cold tile and an apartment full of ghosts? Harry rests his elbow on the lip of the toilet seat, his head heavy in his palm and hair scrunched between thick fingers. Breathing takes an immense effort he’s starting to resent. Fuck this, marriage could go fuck itself. 

The edges of his phone dig into his thigh through the tight pocket of his trousers while kneeling and with stuttering, frustrated movements he digs it out to toss on top of the envelope in front of him. The screen lights up at the motion with the uncountable notifications he’s missed since silencing it this morning. All of them say something along the same vein: 

Grimmy:  
Happy Birthday you old bastard!

x

It’s horrible. It’s perfect. The pub he chose between their places serves something decent enough not to offend, but on a weekend it’s too noisy to hear half the words they’re saying even when they press close. After stilted conversation yelled into each other's ears they leave with the grand idea of going for a walk. What they didn’t consider is the British weather. Near instantly they’re uncomfortably damp. Ten minutes later the rain lets up and the clouds recede enough for a few hues of sunset to spill in. Typical. Cold and full of nervous energy his date still insists on dragging them another few blocks to a neighbourhood Harry’s never been in.

Away from the crush of the crowd they’re free to talk the entire time, the words flowing just as easily as they did the week before. It’s an instant click in humour and personality Harry’s pleased and yet baffled by. A small green space crammed into the busy buildings comes into view and Harry realises their destination instantly.

“We’re not exactly children. Least, I’m not. Jury's still out on you.” 

Harry gets a shove to the stomach for his smirk. He feels at ease, confident despite the waylayed plans. 

“Take a seat, jerk.”

Harry’s legs are too long and his coordination rather off, giving him the grace of a baby giraffe in the swing. Still he manages to get enough of a rhythm down to get him swaying back and forth. The memory of doing this as a kid makes him sweetly nostalgic. 

“Close your eyes.” Harry does as he’s told. “Keep going. Wait ‘til you’re the highest you think you’ll be, then open.” 

A smile plays on his lips as he listens, doing as told and pushing until he’s convinced it’s the highest he’ll make it. He opens his eyes. Streaming pinks and bruising purples swell in front of him. The air is punched out of him at the sight of nothing but clouds painted in saturated light. Gravity pulls him backwards and down to earth, but his eyes don’t leave the sky, trying to mesmerize each swirl above him every time momentum pushes him forward. 

The silence is the first to clue him in. The excitement of a first date has left little room for a silent moment since they greeted each other. Now there’s only the rush of the wind and faint groans of the chains. Harry looks over. With eyes closed and a soft smile the man beside him is the epitome of peace as the world pushes and pulls as it pleases. Gently the swing starts to slow until Harry’s feet drag on the dirt. 

When they’re both swaying idly, legs tangled together like teenagers, Harry listens to him talk. 

“Gonna say something really overtop, ‘m warnin’ ya.” His lips slant in a shy grin and Harry’s heart flares at the vulnerability he sees beneath it. “But I’ve been doing it since I was in nappies, always calms me down. Think it’s something about knowing there’s a whole universe around us. You just gotta look up and it’s there.” 

Harry reaches out to takes his hand, letting their legs slip apart so they’re tethered only by their palms. He glances at the sky again, not quite the same when he’s not staring it straight in the face. 

“I’ve never thought much about the universe,” Harry admits. 

“S’alright, it doesn’t think about us much either.”

It seems like a blink and the sky’s colours are swallowed by the darkness of night. They sit on the swings talking until their throats are raw from use and the dropping temperature can’t be ignored. Harry’s warmed by a glowing ball of contentment and peels off the jumper still dry under his coat to hand over. A jean jacket and t-shirt can’t be nearly enough when the shaking in the man’s voice is more from shivers than excitement. 

Just as he thought, the soft blue cotton is a perfect match for bright ocean eyes. The sight makes a flare of satisfaction burn in him, and maybe it’s a tad barbaric but Harry tries to reason his pleasure stems more from being able to make the man comfortable than any sense of false claim his jumper could try to stake. 

They walk back to Harry’s holding hand. On the doorstep Harry tugs him so close they’re sharing breath, relishing the thrill of the moment as they catch each other looking at one another's lips. Their mutual huff of laughter is visible in small clouds. Harry bends down at the same time he surges up to meet for their first kiss. A hint of beer still lingers and his lips are cold from the night air, Harry chases after them when they pull away with his hand reaching out to sink into soft brown locks. Every thought in Harry’s mind vanishes to leave nothing but the physical feeling to consume him. They have their second, then third kiss, deepening every time until they’re swaying in place with the weight of each other. With another soft chuckle they part and shyly wipe their mouths. 

His date slowly walks down the steps, having fulfilled his gentlemanly duty of walking him home and wishing him a goodnight. He turns with a grin and they share a stupid little wave as Harry closes the door. Harry stares at the back of his door, his blood boiling. He thought he could wait and do this a bit more proper, but the patience he’d been clinging to all night was barely there to start and the kiss has awakened a pit of desire within him. He flings the door open.

He’s still there, sheepishly stammering an excuse for lingering but Harry’s more relieved than anything. 

“Louis.” Harry’s got nervous tremors despite the bright blue eyes shining hopefully at him. Harry wets his lips and clings to the doorframe. “Please stay?”

An eager mouth meets his, a restless body thrown against him with vigour that knocks them backwards with lips connected. They stumble over the threshold and fall into each other. 

x

Time blurs while nothing exists but work. The adjustments he spoke of with Zayn are small but many and Harry takes his time finding ways to make them without disrupting the flow of space, knowing from experience too many little things out of line add up to glaring discord.

The days start early under grey London skies and more than one gruelling traffic jam. The rhythm of driving does little to temper his sour mood when it feels like his head has replaced the brake petal and his foot relentlessly stomps on it throughout the week. Not by luck but rather meticulous planning the building is cold and empty when he arrives, just as it is when he left earlier in the unspeakable hours of the day. 

Mr. Corden occupies the first office in Harry’s hall, the only other early riser on this floor, and Harry knows he enjoys being the first customer of the day at the cafe two blocks down. The ginger private investor habitually walks in at ten past the hour with a steaming travel mug plastered with his children’s faces. If Harry doesn’t get in before him there’s no way to reach his own office without being roped into a round of pleasantries that always ends in parenting advice. The last thing Harry needs. 

In the safe confines of frosted walls he hand draws every idea they tossed around in the stacks of tracing paper on the built in light board at his desk. Paper cuts start adding up. The fine tip of his favourite mechanical pencil continuously breaks until he tosses it across the room and roots around for another, cheaper, utensil. The first three are out of graphite and the fourth is missing the eraser. At that point he takes what he can get. 

Every day Naomi comes in with tea and leaves it at his elbow. By the evening he’s pulled out his smudged glasses and works on inputting everything he’s done by hand into the software he has little patience for. The fourth time he nearly knocks a full ice-cold cuppa across his desk onto proofs he doesn’t have copies of he has to ask her through gritted teeth and a false smile to stop.

Night swoops in with a blanket of darkness. At the end of the week, finally satisfied with the progress he’s made in the staircase transitions, he sits back in his chair and rubs the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up his face. The rest of the building is peacefully vacant with half lit halls. With the flat black of cloud covered night behind him the windowed wall looks like the gaping mouth of a black hole. Silence surrounds his floating glass cube of light. On the screen before him the software is rendering the day's work, nothing he can do until it’s done and by that point he knows he’ll be useless. 

He stretches his legs out and basks in the last moments of pretense that life outside the bubble of his office is unchanged. 

The drawer clicks open slowly to reveal a face down silver photo frame and the innocuous manilla envelope with his scrawled name. Harry reaches in and takes out the phone he’d shoved there at the beginning of the day and closes the drawer. Phone calls missed from his mother and a matching number of voice messages. An email from Zayn he’s already replied to from his work devices. A meme from Nick. Texts from Liam. 

Harry taps his fingers on the case of the phone. Liam’s been friends with both of them for so long he can’t recall who knew who first. He’s also become their default ‘sleeping on the couch’ option, and it’s not Liam’s fault he’s got an actual guest room to stay in unlike the rest of their friends. Harry can’t blame him for offering safe harbour. Liam was adamant about never taking sides, making it obtusely clear when he’d insisted on being best man for both or neither at the wedding. They each have keys for his place by now, given under the guise of ‘emergencies’ while Liam was off traveling the world for work, but Harry wonders if it should have been a sign he paid more attention to. 

Puppy:  
Drinks?

Harry thinks through the rest of the week. Zayn’s been getting more vocal and shooting out new ideas a little late in the process, leaving Harry the uncomfortable position of either starting the lengthy process of accommodating the changes, in turn marring his relationship with the engineering team he’d already given a timeline, or putting his foot down to keep the project on schedule and risk alienating Zayn and his potential referrals. Walking this fine line would undoubtedly keep him late at the office for the rest of the week, not to mention the undoubtable fact the emotional turmoil ‘drinks’ with Liam was going to require more time to recover from than a simple hangover. Definitely a Saturday thing.

H:  
Saturday?

Puppy:  
:(  
Prolly no go, I’ll be out of town.  
Sorry H. Been booked for months. 

Harry’s brow creases. Liam’s in the studio all month, something he knows for a fact because they’d been planning on ambushing him near the end to listen to demo’s before official release. It was a ritual the three of them had cemented since Liam’s first album. Now Harry realises he’ll probably need to make sure they don’t go on the same day. 

H:  
F you doin out of studz?

Puppy:  
Look @ calender mate

A few taps on the touch screen and there it is, so obvious it’s painful. A glaring ‘14’ on Saturday. Valentine's Day. 

Harry throws his phone on the desk. He sinks his face into his hands and groans with frustration, with anger, with fucking everything he’s been through with a man that wont even look at him anymore. 

They knew it was a ridiculous thing to do. That’s the worst part of it all, right as they were signing the marriage certificate in a foreign country they’d shared a disbelieving look and half hysterical giggles, amazed by their own recklessness. How quickly he fell for pretty blue eyes and an accent. Right up to the moment he remembers convincing himself the nerves he felt stemmed from his sense of adventure and not his conscience trying to reason with him. He dry washes his face and admits to himself in a tiny petulant thought that his mother had been right and she probably bit her tongue every time she talked to him to hold back her well earned ‘I told you so.’

Everything’s turned out to be an absolute waste of time. Whatever love they’d had was obviously worth shit if it was so easily dismantled. They’d both sworn vows before they signed the bloody thing so he’s not the only one at fault here. 

With a loud crack the drawer protests as he yanks it open so hard it’s contents slam into each other. The envelope tears further in his clenched hold. In a move of spiteful vindication he reaches under the desk and slots the document into the shredder. Tiny mechanical sounds of destruction do nothing to replicate the tearing in his chest. 

x

“Pivot! Pivot!” Harry calls up the stairs. 

“You’re not nearly as hilarious as you think you are, hun.”

Harry snickers while hauling the last of the boxes into the house that still smells of lemon cleaner. The moving crew had done most of the work, leaving them with just a few boxes of delicates they’d wanted to handle personally and the things they’d kept out for the days leading up to the move. The Move. It’s been capitalized in his phone calendar for weeks. Waking this morning to see today’s date was surreal, like sleepwalking he was moving through the motions without fully comprehending the implications of his empty apartment and the freshly cut key in his pocket. 

He’s giddy, like he tends to be whenever Louis’ around and if he’s honest, has been since they met. Willingly he’s resigned himself to never getting over this twisting swell of warmth that fills him every second he breathes the same air as his boyfriend. How he ever lived a day without him is impossible to fathom. He wonders if Louis knows just how much of a hold he has on Harry. How just the sight of him makes Harry’s heart clench. 

He must. He will. 

Harry spends the moment it takes to settle the box onto another without fear of collapse to remind himself to tell Louis of these thoughts tonight, their first night in their new bed, in their new room, in their new place. 

Harry looks up to see where Louis’ wandered off. His pale silhouette stands in the living room like a marble cut statue basked in light by the big windows, his hands absently tugging at oversized sleeves and his gaze slowly scanning the room. Harry’s ribs clench unforgivingly around his lungs. He’s struck with it then, like a lightning of understanding he realizes Louis’ envisioning it; their home. The life they’re going to lead here, together. 

There are grass stains on the knees of his joggers and a smear of mud on his face he missed in the post practice shower, likely because he was rushing. He’s always rushing these days, pulling Harry along in a blur of buoyant energy. Harry can’t complain. It only makes moments like this, still and tender, all the more poignant. 

Keeping his footsteps light Harry comes within a fingers breadth behind Louis’, watching the minute adjustment Louis’s muscles make with every breath. ‘David’ may be renowned for his beauty, but marble could never hope to imitate the grace of a heartbeats symphony beneath soft pink skin. Gently his arms wrap from behind until his hands rest on Louis’ tummy. Louis presses his back lightly into his chest in a habitual way, Harry completing the hold by ducking to press his face into Louis’ shoulder. 

“It’s really ours, Hazza,” Louis murmurs with wonder.

Harry nudges a smile into the crook of his neck, leaving a little kiss on the warm skin there. “Really is.”

“Never been more grateful for those fancy paycheques.”

Harry chuckles, also relieved by the new client who’s project will be paying for a good chunk of the place, although Louis’ actually got the lion-share on the title when it comes down to it. Harry’s not the only one that likes to watch his arse run. The place is much closer to his office, a bonus he wasn’t looking for but is pleased with. The less time driving is more time spent in bed in the mornings, more time to cuddle with cups of tea at the end of the day. His hands press through the layers on Louis’ hips just to feel the shape of him. Louis surrenders more weight to him and rests his head back on Harry’s shoulder.

“Your hair’s growing out,” he muses, nose scrunching like a mouse when Harry shakes his head so the tips of his hair purposefully tickle Louis’ face.

“Do I need a trim?” 

“No, I like it.” Louis sinks a hand into the curls, “Very first season Rachel.”

Harry shoves him away with a scoff at the comparison. Heat sparks at the sight of Louis’ playful smile while the athlete trips back towards the bedroom, his teasing look flitting over his shoulder to get the trajectory right but Harry knows one day he’ll have every inch of this place mapped out. One day they’ll have removed the plastic cover from the couch and they’ll soak it in sweat. One day they’ll find a rug for the fireplace and Louis will press open mouthed moans into it. For now Harry stalks him down the hall.

They’ll need to be quick with Liam coming round to help set up some of the furniture. If they’re lucky he’s taken pity on them and already plans to bring dinner. Even if their kitchen was unpacked, Louis’ skills never really surpassed boiling water and Harry will be damned if he steps foot over the doorway once more after a day of lugging boxes across it. It’ll be nice to catch up over take-away, Liam’s undoubtedly full of hilarious tour stories too long to mention in the brief moments crammed between shows, promo, and soundcheck where he’s managed to sneak in quick facetimes usually involving a closeup of his forehead and/or nostrils as he moved from place to place. 

Once the rubbish is cleared and the furniture is built Liam will pat him on the back and promise to call later in the week, the door will close softly behind him, and Harry will go to bed with Louis next to him. One of their last firsts. 

x

“Harry.” 

Harry startles at his desk. Naomi’s at his doorway, still not quite as comfortable around him since the envelope episode but at least they were back to first names. He sent flowers to the front desk last week as an apology for leaving her to deal with Zayn and how the envelope had placed her in the position of being the unfortunate catalyst to his breakdown. It was the only thing he did that came close to marking the heart circled holiday. Her nails are a brilliant turquoise that remind Harry of crystal clear waters in the tropics and the face down frame in his drawer. 

“I’m ordering lunch today, did you want a bite?” 

“I’m alright.” His can’t quite manage a smile and his lips straighten into something closer to a grimace. 

She eyes him with disbelief, not quite concern but verging on it. Harry should have let her keep delivering the tea. 

“I’ll order extra, just in case.”

Harry deflates when she leaves. He’s a grown man, his work is in high demand, there is no excuse for his secretary feeling like she’s the only reason he hasn’t keeled over. The worst of it is, she is. He hasn’t eaten anything that hasn’t been inconspicuously placed in the corners of his office to snack on when the pit of his stomach can’t be ignored. Food has truly been the last of his thoughts. 

He hasn’t talked to Liam since he’s been back in town, both busy with work and unsure of how to approach a conversation when there’s an elephant staying in Liam’s guest room. It’s not really something he wants to discuss over the phone and their schedules haven’t aligned to make it happen in person. He knows Liam supports him, but damn. It would be nice to have a hug right about now. 

Telling Nick was easier than he thought it would be. His old coworker had been mid rant during a lunch break call.

“I’m serious, Harry. Every time I walk by she smells so strongly of ham I get flashbacks of my fathers feet. Which would be fine, my dad started wearing socks eventually so maybe she’s still on her hygiene journey, but she’s contributed next to nothing on the new project. I think Simon’s permanent grimace of doom has gotten deeper. There’s no night cream in the world that’ll help that man.”

“If you’re going to tell her please do it nicely. Some people just don’t know, it’s not her fault.” Harry says, fearing for his replacements reaction to being exposed to the full brunt of Nick’s judgement. 

He’s pretty sure he’s not been listened to when Nick gasps like he’s been stung by a bee, a common occurance Harry’s actually witnessed a few times, something about Nick’s personality tended to attract bugs. Maybe it was the hairspray. 

“You should ask about the vitamin C cream your lad uses. He’s like a baby-faced angel and Simon could use some brightening,” He says like it’s a brilliant idea. 

“Actually, uh…” He shifts his weight and puts a hand on the work table for support. “We’re getting a divorce.” 

Nick gasps twice as loud, “You what?” Harry just hums and lets Nick work through it. “Babes, you tell me if you need anything at all. Grimmy will strangle a man, I swear.” 

“Thanks, uhm. Probably unnecessary but good to know the offers there.” He says weakly. 

“Damn Harry,” and Nick really sounds serious now, a rare thing. “How are you feeling?”

Harry shrugs awkwardly with his forehead pinched, glad no one’s there to see how his body curls inwards. 

“Still figuring that out, I think.” 

Nick makes a few tsks, his natural exuberance returning. “You, me, my place. I’ve got a bottle of rose with our names on it and cheap beer to wash it down.” 

Harry’s eyes might get a little wet from the fierceness of his friend's loyalty, but he’ll save that for the rose. 

“Yes, please.”

They sort plans for the weekend before Nick’s lunch is up. Harry clears his eyes and shakes himself back into work mode. What he sees makes his brows furrow. 

He stands over the desk and rests his hands on his hips. The perfect designs he had presented are now checkered with correction marks. Everyday it seems there’s a new list from Zayn, questions and suggestions Harry can only dodge half of and still keep the man in his favour. He chews the inside of his cheek. He apologized for the abrupt end to their meeting and Zayn had taken it well, but now Harry thinks he should have stuck it out. 

Obviously Zayn had more to say about the work than he’d gotten to in their morning working together. The thought of that nags at Harry, who’s used to getting a good read off of people fairly quickly, something that’s helped him in the past with client relations and knowing instantly if they were truly pleased or if he should needle them for their honest opinion. Zayn had seemed so genuine in his ‘Do what you think’s good’ attitude. Maybe Harry really is having an identity crisis. 

A plate of chips finds its way near his elbow while he’s going over the window alignments. He munches on them absently while crunching the numbers. Engineering isn’t his profession, but he didn’t go to university for nothing and he knows enough about load bearing and structural integrity to be frustrated trying to balance Zayn’s requests that keep chipping away at key pillars while maintaining cornered windows. Trying to cast a spell to float the second floor would take less effort. 

He’s writing, with tenuous professionalism, a list of electrical codes he’d have to break in order to fulfil Zayn’s newest obsession and his sequential reasoning for the original design when an email pops up into his inbox. He catches the blurb preview on the notification:

Subject: Renew Your Subscription!  
_Mr. Styles, we’d hate to see you go! If you’d like to keep your annual subscription please follow the link…_

It's a magazine subscription he gifted last year. Neat stacks of them are piled around the apartment, the favourite editions with big names or friends faces were always close at hand. Occasionally Harry's flipped through some to get to know the sport better, an attempt to understand where all the passion came from something as basic as a big empty field and a ball. Won't be needing that anymore. With a sigh he reaches for his phone so he won't have to navigate away from his current draft. 

The email is easy to find at the top of the list and he clicks the link. It takes him to the magazine's website with a wide spread picture of this month's issue. 

On screen a face he knows every minute detail of gives him a fierce challenging stare. Harry closes his eyes for a deep breath. There were always promo things and photoshoots between practice and games, but he can’t even recall hearing about this particular one. Something must have been said, you don’t just land the cover of the biggest magazine in your sport and not say anything. Harry looks closer at the screen. He’s clean shaven, a rarity, and his hair tousled in a way he’d never style it himself, barely brushing his ears. 

It must have been over a month ago. All Harry can remember from a month ago is a permit falling through and agonizing hours at the office reconfiguring the layout. Did they even hold a conversation that wasn’t around a toothbrush or with one of them halfway out the door? 

He cancels the subscription. 

His thumb hovers over a message from Liam. It was sent days ago and Liam’s giving him space by not hammering him for a response, because he’s a good friend. Harry’s a shit friend though so he locks the screen and pockets the phone.

Light fades until the night has swallowed the outside world around him. He’s made zero progress since licking his fingers clean of salt from the chips. His eyes are bleary from looking over the same equations for countless hours in a way that tells him it’s absolutely useless. If he’s honest, the last few hours have been knowingly wasted. All can see is the accusing glare of the magazine cover and like foolishly shredding the documents, he’s just putting off the inevitable.

Zayn sends another email and before Harry even reads it he types back a quick response. 

Harry E. Styles:  
No.

With a groan Harry flops backwards into his chair with instant regret. Fuck. Nevermind the foot, he’s just shot himself in the fucking face. The chair isn’t low enough. Slowly he curls over and drops to the floor and lands on his back with little grace. Beneath the low hum of the building's HVAC system and the janitors trolly squeaking down the hall, the sound of Harry’s heart thuds in his eardrums. This is it. This is his crisis.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to the ceiling. To the sky above. To the universe in which he is just a speck. 

He’s twenty six and laying on the floor of an office he’s going to have to sell because he can’t finish this project without strangling his client and did he mention? He’s going to be a divorcee. So tonight he’ll go back to an apartment he’s going to have to sell because he can’t be in a marriage without alienating the person he used to love. 

The breath knocked out of him at the thought. Used to. It’s the first time he’s admitted their love is truly a past tense verb, and it probably has been for awhile. He thinks back to the start, the first time they met at some stupid party. The person he used to be back then is a stranger. Their relationship stood on a basis of youthful exhilaration they’ve grown out of. They could try a thousand times over and Harry’s pretty sure it would always end up here, with him on the floor. A failure.

When the janitors trolly squeaks closer Harry finds the strength to straighten himself onto two feet and slowly wraps himself in his coat. Smooth lines of the empty hall do little to please him on his way out. A comforting sense of awe used to sweep him up every time he walked through this building, which was exactly why he chose it for his home base. 

Its pretentious air earned him a low whistle and saucy grin for being a ‘big shot’ when he’d left Cowell&Co. to incorporate his own name. He’d been propelled by the urge to create a legacy, something to be proud of when he’s eighty-five and looking back at what he’s accomplished. Perhaps it was a jump he’d taken earlier than he might have truly been ready for, but it seems he’s got a knack for not thinking things through. 

Glass walls didn’t make for a lot of privacy, even if they were frosted, so hands had always been kept to themselves on the few personal visits. He’s glad of it now. This one small space was completely devoted to him and his career, everything else in his life was a weight he feels lifted from him every time he enters, and similarly feels piled back on his shoulders every time he leaves. 

Never-ending London drizzle catches him on his way out. The radio in the Rover has been muted since last week when they played nothing but love songs for the entire duration of his commute. Only by the steady hum of rainfall and his wipers intermittent swipe accompanies him. 

The flat is dark. 

It’s a shock even when he prepares for it while turning the key. So different from the warm glow of lamps, the buzz of a TV on in the background, smells of dinner from the kitchen with Nix being hummed by the stove. 

Harry slips his shoes off in the dark entryway. On the way to the sofa his jacket gets thrown on the lounge chair they erroneously bought for guests they never had. He falls into the large grey sofa cushions face first. The blanket he tosses under isn’t the one they’ve kept out for movie cuddling, it’s fresh from the closet of spares and smells like a department store. 

Tomorrow he’ll wake and dress in clothes different yet the same. Then he’ll go to work and hunch over whatever issues Zayn’s poked in the plans, different yet the same. He’ll tell himself it’s exactly where he should be. Not in Paris celebrating an anniversary. 

x

There has never been a moment more perfect than the one he’s currently living. Earlier today had been near, walking hand in hand under light snowflakes with spontaneously bought hot cocoa. Louis' nose had been bright red in the cold and Harry had scalded his tongue so they’d made an agreement that Harry’s cheek could warm Louis’ nose if he’d kiss Harry’s tongue better and they’d been outrageously late to dinner with flushed faces. Yeah, that’d been pretty close. 

Now the warm weight of Louis in his lap and they’re sharing soft slow kisses filled with sleepy sighs. They sink into clouds of softness surrounding them, somehow he’d convinced Louis to buy an excessive amount of pillows and the fluffiest pale pink duvet they could find, making their bed more of a plush nest. 

There’s no rush, nowhere it’s leading, only enjoyment of this simple act. The day has worn them out and tomorrow promises to be even busier with gifts and family and so much food they won't want to eat for a week. That’s tomorrow, right now they’re sighing into each other's mouths and fondness swells in him when he notices Louis can hardly keep his eyes open. 

“Love,” he murmurs.

Louis hums in response, shifting his weight pleasantly. Harry’s distracted by the tip of his finger slipping further under Louis’ briefs and the wet mouth on his neck. He can’t screw this up though, so he concentrates and tries again. 

“Love, there’s one more present.”

“Too many already, give it to me ’morrow.”

Harry knocks his head back into the pillows, at once completely annoyed and enamoured with the man in his arms. Since when is there such a thing as too many presents?

“You’ll want this one, Lou. Promise.” 

He needs monumental will power to slide away from beneath the gorgeous creature sucking lovebites into his collarbone, but he convinces himself it’s for the greater good. 

“Haz,” Louis whines when he slumps onto his side. 

Harry pulls away and stretches across the mattress to dig into the bedside drawer. When Harry turns back with a hand behind his back Louis’ already curled around a pillow, his mouth parted in light slumber. Harry rolls to press close with a small smile as Louis sleepily blinks his eyes open, their noses inches away. 

“I bought this when I had a dream about you.”

“Bet I can guess how the dream ended,” Louis smirks, his eyes flicking down past Harry’s butterfly and back with a suggestive arch in his eyebrows. And okay, it wouldn’t be the first time Harry had bought something fun for them to use, but he’s trying to have a moment here. 

“You were dressed in this dream, surprisingly,” Harry huffs, “and laughing at me like you are now, but there was one thing different.”

“Whazzat?” Louis hums, amusement mixing with curiosity. 

“You were wearing this.” 

Harry nudges the little open box onto the pillow between their faces and watches Louis struggle to focus on it. Once he does his eyes widen comically. 

“Harry.”

“Louis.”

There’s a volcano erupting in the pit of his stomach at the wide eyed shock on Louis’ face, both of them battling to keep their faces straight to match the hushed gravity of their voices. 

Louis says it slow, each word dragged, “Are you marrying me?” 

Harry hums in false thought, his eyebrows creasing for show while his body breaks into a sweat beneath the sheets. “Dunno, someone hasn’t said yes.”

“Someone hasn’t asked a bloody question.” Louis’ face starts to crack into a twitching smile, his words quickening. 

“Louis William Tomlinson, will you-” 

“Yes. Fuck yes, I do.”

Their teeth clack and the sheets bunch as Louis pounces on him with a cascade of kisses. They keep having to break off as bouts of giddy laughter spill from them and stretch their lips too wide to keep up a kiss. Harry runs his hands over every inch of Louis he can find, squeezing the smallest part of his waist, palming the warm thighs wrapped around him, sinking into the soft hair at the base of his neck. Forever. He imagines having this man forever and he’s greedy for it to start now. 

Between kisses and the sleepy grinding they’ve settled into as the exhaustion of the day once again tugs at them Harry whispers into the space behind Louis’ ear, “Happy Birthday, love.”

“No no, it’s past midnight.” Louis pulls back with a few quick pecks to Harry’s face and a little nip on his bottom lip like he can’t help himself before he gives Harry a cheeky look. “Happy Christmas, fiance.” 

He wiggles his eyebrows and Harry's heart gives such a jolt he’s convinced it’s going to burst. 

x

“Fuck!” Harry slams the break and punches the horn. “Get a pair of eyes, idiot!” He calls through the windshield at the tit flipping him off after walking into the street with his head down. 

The guy takes his time shuffling out the way while Harry grips the wheel with white knuckles. As soon as the way is clear he rips forward in a squeal of rubber. His shoulders are tense the rest of the drive, his jaw clenched. The way people can be so careless with their own lives is unfathomable. 

“Ridiculous,” he mutters, shaking his head. 

He slams the car door and marches into his building with heavy steps, ignoring the calls of his name in greeting. 

Zayn Malik is sitting in his office. The back of his ravens nest hair is a slap in the face that throws Harry so off balance he comes within inches of walking into the glass door. He pushes it open after a moment to solidify his relationship with gravity.

“Zayn, hello.” He shakes the man’s hand while still pulling the rest of his office into focus. It’s a mess, papers and notes laid out on every surface resembling the state of mind he’d been in last night. “Must have slipped my mind today was our rescheduled appointment.” He knows there’s no way he would have forgotten, not when this date is burned into his mind like a smoking brand. 

Zayn shrugs. “You didn’t forget. My favourite Indian place is down the street so thought I’d stop by.” 

And that’s the moment Harry’s eyes widen as he remembers the last email he’d sent. Zayn probably thinks he’s a conceited pratt.

“Apologies for the email last night, I believe there was confusion on my part and I replied to the wrong person. I’ll go over-”

Zayn shrugs again, his face still soft and open, non-pulsed. “It’s cool man, only throwing things out there. Gigi got back from a trip with a friends family and she’s got some wicked ideas, you know?” 

Yes. Harry did know, if those happened to be the ideas he was being emailed with in a constant stream throughout every day. His eyes flicker to Zayn’s fingers, just as bare as he remembers them being last time they’d met. Harry tries not to let his thoughts show, the thoughts that making substantial changes to your multi-million pound home on the whim of some woman you hadn’t married yet was… maybe what he should expect from someone like Zayn. Hell, even Liam didn’t quite understand relationships that went deeper than the exchange of shiny things for pretty smiles. Maybe they’re on the same artist wavelength. 

"Yes, her influence has been lovely.” He says with maybe a tad too much force. 

“You got a lunch hour? We could stop by later,” Zayn says pleasantly, with his pleasant smile. 

Rain water runs down the side of Harry’s face from the car to office dash he makes every morning because he keeps forgetting his umbrella. He eyes the catastrophic mess of his office. Ten minutes for lunch would be a stretch. A full hour? 

“Today might not be the best, I’ve got a… “ he gestures at the table covered in papers and nibs of erasers and pencils, then sees the peaceful look on Zayn’s face. 

Frustration clenches in his fist. He can’t afford to lose the reputation built by this project, and Zayn’s proven to be an enigma of a person. Harry can’t tell if he’s truly bothered by anything because the last time he assumed things were fine it landed him here. It’s possible, even probable, if Zayn leaves he’ll tell his wife or girlfriend or whomever and Harry will lose all chances of kickstarting a legacy he can be proud of.

“If you tell me the address I can be there for one?” 

Zayn nods. If he’s surprised it doesn’t show. 

By the time Harry’s re-discovered how to use his filing system and returned his office into a place of vast empty surfaces he’s nearly late. In a small act of kindness the place is easy to find and the rain has stopped so he doesn’t repeat his appearance of a drowned rat. The restaurant is nice, homey in a way chains could never be no matter how hard they tried to find the right shade of sun burnt walls. He bounces a pressed smile off of the staff as he makes his way to where Zayn is already lounging in a small booth. 

Not until he’s scanning through the menu does he realize he can’t eat any of it if he wants to keep his tongue and stomach intact. Gemma calls him a delicate flower, but Harry thinks he’s normal and people who need to eat literal fire to taste something are the issue. He sets the stock card down, resigned to a meal of rice and naan bread. It might still qualify as the largest meal he’s had in weeks. 

Zayn relaxes into the padded booth after they order. 

“Gigi couldn't make it, I’ll probably bring her by next time. She’s very excited to meet you “

“I look forward to it,” Harry lies through a professional smile. 

Zayn might narrow his eyes a little, but he doesn’t comment on the lack of colour on Harry’s plate when the food arrives. The silence as they chew is not as easy as it had been in the office although Harry is quick to forget it when he gets more than a mouthful of food in his belly and realises just how much he’s missed eating. He’s trying not to resemble a starving dog crouched over it’s hard won meal when Zayn speaks up. 

“We were talking about the windows upstairs, maybe framing them with a reading nook instead of the wall length.”

Harry’s mind blanks, forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. It’s like his subconcious is protecting him from the consequences of murder by tucking away every emotional reaction he could have to the question. His head stays ducked down and inches away from the fork as his eyes flick to Zayn’s. Deep amber holding false warmth just like their owner. 

He focuses on setting his fork down slowly, dizzy with sudden exhaustion. Altering the windows is going to ruin the whole flow and quality of daylight within the spaces, which had been meticulously calculated when mapping out the placement of wired in lighting fixtures to assimilate the rotation of the sun. 

“Is there something wrong with what’s in place now?” He manages to ask with hands clenched under the table.

“No man, it’s cool. Gigi was thinking-”

“But you loved those windows,” Harry blurted. 

He can’t let it go, and he doesn’t want to know what gig thought. There’s a clench in his gut. It had been Zayn’s idea in the first place to work the house like a clock. Harry loved it too and he’d run with it until the whole concept of the house relied on it. They’d worked it out long before the holidays. Harry’s face scrunched as he took in Zayn’s comfortable position slouched back on his side of the booth, a slip of a smile playing on his lips. Was one of the most popular artistic minds of this decade really compromising his ideas for a passing muse? 

Zayn shrugged. “It’s cool, yeah. Maybe we’ll keep them like this, I’m sure she’ll forget about it anyway. She was more interested in the slide anyways.”

Ah yes. The slide they’d added next to the stairs, something Zayn had been convinced was a stroke of genius. Harry hums. Didn’t Zayn realise he was setting himself up for disaster? 

He picks, or more accurately stabs, at the food left on his plate until it’s a mess and he recognizes that he can’t swallow another bite. The waiter clears the dishes away. Harry dabs at his mouth with the cloth napkin and twists it in his lap. 

“Did you catch the last Manchester game?”

Harry shakes his head, detaching it from his previous thoughts and swerving into the new topic. Narrowly manages to control his face.

“No, uh,” he clears his throat, “not really one for sports.”

“Me either, or wouldn’t be except I got a mate who’s big time in it. Keeps blabbing on and you start soaking it in like what’s it called, that science term?”

“Osmosis?” Harry arches a brow. 

Zayn smiles softly, his thumb running over his lip like he’s self conscious. “Right. Never made it to college.”

“Your parents must be so disappointed,” Harry jokes, glad to be on a new topic. “You’re only what? The greatest artist of our lifetime.”

Zayn’s laugh is the strangest thing Harry’s heard from him so far, a hysterical giggle that pulls his face into a new shape like a six year old. It’s so ridiculous Harry can’t help join in. The lull of silence after is much easier to handle. Harry smooths the napkin flat on his thighs and leans back in his own booth. 

“What made you become an artist?” 

He’s genuinely curious, always has been when it comes to other artists. Harry’s work might include more maths than he’d have ever predicted for himself, but when it came down to it he considered himself an artist all the same. It was not a love of figures that kept him tied to his desk, it was a drive to create, to design, to inspire emotion. A passion only seen in other true artists. 

Zayn’s answer isn’t as quick as he’d thought it would be. His lips purse in concentration, his eyes glazed in deep thought. 

“There’s an immeasurable amount of emotions human beings are capable of. Growing up everyone told me I feel too much, but it’s the way I am. I look at a flower and I can’t enjoy the beauty my mum sees, I get caught up in the frailty that makes its beauty ephemeral.” His lips quirk to break the seriousness of his tone. “But words weren’t really my thing. Painting was the only way I could express that to her.”

Harry stares at the man who picks a stray bit of rice out of his stubble like he hasn’t admitted to seeing the world through somber lenses. 

“Do you paint a lot for your mum?” 

He doesn’t mean to pry, yet the honesty of the moment is magnetic and Harry is desperate to hear about someone else’s emotions so he doesn’t have to reflect on his own. 

Zayn shakes his head and leans forward with his forearms on the table.

“Not just her. Usually there’s someone in mind, something that happened maybe, and I feel it out on canvas until the emotion has worked its way through.” 

“Sounds like a trip.” 

Sounds cathartic, actually, and Harry bite back his jealousy. If only communicating emotions were as easy as smearing paint on paper. 

Zayn hums in agreement, “Seriously. Gotta make sure food’s already been had if I’m gonna pick up a brush, otherwise I’ll clean forget and work through the whole day.” 

Harry recalls numerous times he’s come home to a plate of cold food with a cringe. 

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

They pay the bill and part ways amiably. When they’re not talking about the project Harry thinks he could get along with Zayn quite well. Hopefully he’s managed to imbue some of his charming self into Zayn’s impression to wipe away the disaster he’s portrayed recently. 

He walks to the office with light steps. He’d finally flicked the radio back on during his return to the office and they’d been playing one of Liam’s hits from his last album, pumping the audience up for the upcoming release. Harry sits back in the office chair. Cautiously his fingers tap the trackpad to brighten the screen. He squints at the default search engine home page, hesitating over the keyboard.

He sits back and runs his hand through his hair with a shaky breath. One thing at a time. Liam’s his second speed dial, right after his mum. 

“Harry!”

“Liam.” He feels warmth pour over him at the enthusiastic tone of his best friend. 

“Mate, you won't believe how fire this new tune is. Just got the final track laid on and it’s insane, seriously I’m ready to pop the good stuff out, you know? Can’t wait for you to hear it. Got me sweating just thinking about performing it live with the crowds, can’t wait to get out and see what they think of it. I’m floating, man. This is the natural high.”

Harry smiles through Liam’s ramble, giddy just picturing the way he’s probably bouncing on his toes with excitement. 

“Is this another one you’ll have to hide from your mother?”

“Oi, my mum does not need to know certain things about certain things.”

“Still don’t understand why you thought the rest of the world deserved to hear about it.”

“Pfft, you’re just jealous mate.” A stalling silence shatters the joking tone into awkward regret. “Shite, I’m sorry Harry.”

“Don’t be. Not like we didn’t see it coming.”

Liam makes a pained sound like he doesn’t know what to say. Harry picks at the smooth leather of the armrest. It’s not the first time one of them has been in his guest room recently. Not even the first time this year, and it’s barely two months in. 

“How is he?”

“Nah, mate. You know I can’t do that.” 

Harry sighs. He knows. 

“I just…” He also knows he’s whining, but if he can’t tell Liam the truth then who can he tell? “I miss him.” 

“I know,” Liam sighs, probably lost for anything better to say and Harry doesn’t blame him. He swivels a little in the chair. ”You guys seem pretty serious this time. Really no hope of working it out?”

“No, we- I-” He thinks of the empty bed, the silent kitchen, and huffs. “We made a right mess of it. I don’t even know how we got here. How’d we bugger it up so badly?” 

It’s rhetorical. Harry knows how. Everyone knows about his late hours, about the work trips that lasted longer than they needed too, the way they stopped saying ‘I’ll have to check with…” when making plans.

“I know there’s a lot I’m missing out on, but I think you two need to talk.” Harry must sigh too loud because Liam’s voice cuts a little sterner, his pitch a little higher in the way it gets when he’s excited or frustrated. “I don’t get why you’ve been dragging it out for weeks when he sent the papers ages ago. You just admitted you’re not gonna fix it. Let it go so you can both move on.”

Harry rolls his eyes, or he tries to but they’re a little wet at the moment and his chest is starting to need more attention than normal to keep pushing air through his lungs.

“I don’t think there’s anywhere to move on to. What’s the point? Why would anyone fall in love if- if you’re just gonna end up feeling like this? It’s like a bad dream. I just want to wake up so I can forget it all.”

The hiccup must clue Liam in that he’s pushed a little too hard because he responds in a gentler voice. 

“You’d really want to forget him?”

“Look at us!” Harry spread his arms out into his empty office, valiantly not lingering on the spot on the floor he’d been laying on hours before. “I haven’t even seen him in almost a month, and I couldn't point out on a calendar when before that. You can’t tell me we wouldn’t have been better off.”

He’s shaking a bit in the silence while he waits for Liam to respond. It’s preluded by a grunt. 

“As your best mate I can tell you, Harry, you’re being a cunt.” Harry sinks into his chair at the serious tone in Liam’s voice. They weren’t ones for fighting usually and dread quickly pooled in his gut at the thought of one more relationship thrown off balance. “The point is that you loved him and he loved you. It’s a damn shame you don’t anymore but you can’t write off everything you two have been through because you don’t like the ending. One day, if you’re damn lucky and not a miserable bastard like you are now, you’ll find someone else and do it all over again.”

Bile stings his throat with just the thought of having to go through anything similar to this ever again. Who is Liam to tell him about relationships anyway?

“Don’t sing me a bloody song, _Liam._ ” He stresses the name mockingly. “You’d know all about finding someone new. How many girlfriends have you had this year? Is there a back up dancer in this city you haven’t fucked?”

The line cuts off. Yeah, that’s fair. Harry still clenches his phone tight enough to threaten cracking the screen. 

He’s angry because Liam hit too close to the truth and Harry didn’t know how to answer. Would he really want to forget? He hasn’t even removed the face down silver frame from his drawer yet, unable to think of something suitable to do with the photo. So many of their moments together were intertwined with things he used to define himself. He wouldn’t be who he was without living through them. Was that a good thing? There’s still a chance he’d have been more successful if he’d focused more on himself without distraction. Maybe he’d actually be able to get this house built. 

He hesitates over the search engine and changes the name. 

‘Zayn Malik’ pulls up gallery websites and articles discussing the merits of his work. Harry clicks over to see the images. He sees the flower, has seen it before but in the blind way you see advertisements on the metro and billboards on the street. He knows it’s there, but he’s never truly looked.

The longer he examines it the more uncomfortable he gets. It’s like reading the lyrics to one of Liam’s songs and knowing it was written about the addiction he’d battled through at the beginning of his career when everyone else only heard a catchy tune. Harry is swallowed by the sense of knowing. Each stroke of the translucent petals and their paper thin curl gives the impression that even the weight of a butterfly would disrupt it’s delicate beauty. 

He clicks onto another and his breath catches, eyes wide. He knows somewhere it’s the most recent one, the one causing the buzz and even more so due to Malik’s refusal to comment on it. Two figures in blue, shadowy and undefined silhouettes in a dark room. One of them has a little more light cast on it, like a window is singling them out while the other is faded in the same shades of the dark. Like it’s being washed out by the world around it. They’re hands face each other like they’re about to hold hands, or they were and just let go. 

Harry looks at his own hands. Fingers the smooth white gold one last time with the pad of his thumb. He’s a tad shocked by how easy the ring slides right off. 

x 

His mother is crying. That’s no good because when Anne cries Harry tends to cry, and then Louis’ going to cry, and he’s going to bitch about having red eyes in all of their photos for the rest of time. 

“Mum, I love you, but I can't look at you right now or Louis’ going to leave me for crying in our photos.” 

She chuckles wetly into his shoulder while they hold each other tightly. She smells like the perfume he got her for Christmas, the very bottle she’d almost dropped when she’d looked up to say thank you and had seen the engagement rings shining brightly on their fingers. The memory makes him smile but doesn’t help his case of holding back tears. 

Luckily this is what sisters are for and Gemma sweeps their mother out to the crowd to let him get ready, because she is a saint, which she makes clear by pointedly telling him he owes her the same favour on her big day. 

The mirror looks like a dream. First time for everything, he figures. Crisp tux with a thin collar and a deep black shirt he’s kept unbuttoned at the top. Emotion has him in a stronghold, he doesn’t need his clothes to choke him too. There’s a knock on his door as he fusses with a cufflink. What’s the bloody point of these again?

“In a minute,” he throws over his shoulder. 

“Can’t wait a second longer,” a familiar voice shocks him and he drops the links as he turns around.

“Lou-” 

Lips crash into his. Harry’s hands automatically encircle Louis lithe frame while they kiss with the vigor granted by nerves and excitement. Luis pulls back with a small gasp of air and pink cheeks. 

“M’sorry, I couldn’t wait. Christ, I’m sorry, look at you.” His hands smooth over the fabric on Harry's chest, his eyes practically glowing. 

“Look at you,” Harry laughs at the absurdity when Louis looks the way he does, hair tousled and eyes crinkling, a fitted black tux of his own wrapping around his fit limbs. They rest their foreheads together as their eyes roam disbelievingly over the crips lines framing their bodies.

“I ruined it, I’m sorry,” Louis presses a firm kiss to his lips. 

“Nothing’s ruined, lovie. It’s perfect, you’re perfect.” Harry kisses him back, glad that for once he won't have to worry about beard burn with Louis cheeks smooth under his palms. 

“Louis?” The voice of Louis’ mother carries through the open door from down the hall. 

Louis ignores it and presses his forehead to Harry’s. 

“We’re getting married,” he sighs for the thousandth time since last years proposal and it still manages to shoot electricity through Harry’s veins as he repeats it back. 

“We’re getting married,” He whispers back, the words precious on his lips. 

“Loubear?” Jay calls again. 

“I have to go,” Louis kisses him one more time before stepping back flushed and bright eyed, “I’ve gotta go get married.” 

“What a coincidence,” Harry holds onto his hand for a moment to kiss his knuckles and wink as Louis trips backwards when he lets go, “me too.” 

In the once more quiet room any nerves he had are sizzled out, overwhelmed by the vastness of his excitement. Not even the missing cufflink can deter his energy. He’s bouncing with it like Liam’s prone to do as he waits at the altar. He’s already seen Louis in his suit, but it has nothing on the sight of him arm in arm with Jay, followed by every one of his siblings that stand behind him. The youngest set of twins, Doris and Ernie, are flower girl and ring bearer. Everyone chuckles at the cuteness of their dallying walk until the rings are in their shaking hands. Louis slips the ring on his finger and it feels like coming home. 

When Louis’ lips crash into his it feels like the first time. They’re both crying in every single one of their pictures. 

x

The most notable thing to happen that week is a barrage of selfies from Gemma telling him to call his mother. He sent back a close up of his nose. 

On Friday night Harry stands in the front entrance and flicks the lights on for the first time in almost a month. Everything is eerily the same as it has been for the past four years. The same photos on the shelves, the same jackets lined up on the hooks. Scuffs on the walls where they wrestled out of clothes after late nights. A stain on one of the throw pillows when he’d jumped at a spider and been laughed at until it was shooed outside. Plants they couldn’t keep alive long ago brown and crisp on the sil. Every memory has faded with time, made months or even years ago. The most recent things he can think of are quick kisses passing in the hall going separate ways. They were ghosts to each other, living separate lives in the same space.

His phone vibrates. 

Grimmy:  
BYOWG - bring your own wine glass. May have had an accident, but the rose is o-kay! 

Harry flicks the light off and turns around. 

Harry grunts as a body full of lanky limbs collides with his own. 

“Come back to me,” Nick whines. Harry rolls his eyes at the ceiling, flat on his back on Nick’s sofa with the man draped over him. “Your lines are fantastic and you don’t smell like ham.”

Harry pats Nick’s back. The wine was long gone, sipped from mugs covered in cartoon cats because Harry had not followed BYOWG courtesy, and Nick had pulled out more than just his shit beer when Harry had a minor meltdown a few hours ago while watching one of his favourite rom-coms they’d had to shut off ten minutes in.

They’d been talking for awhile now, so long and about so many things that Harry couldn’t keep track of all of them or even how they moved from topic to topic, but somehow it kept flowing. That was the beauty of Nick, he could talk about nothing for hours. Movie related meltdowns aside, Harry had barely thought of the ring missing from his finger. 

“Might have to with the peach of a first client I got.” 

“Isn’t it that Malik guy? I thought you were practically locked.” 

Harry twitches at the tickle of Nick’s hair on his neck and the smell of his breath. 

“So did I,” he huffs. Nick slides off to the side to rest beside him. Harry’s lungs rejoice. “He’s really nice, actually, but it’s been nothin’ but move this, change that since… “ His hand hovers with the bottle halfway to this lips as he thinks about it. “M’ birthday. Got the papers then too.” 

“No, you did not.” Nick perks up with a stern voice to look him in the eye. Harry ducks his chin and grimaces as he swallows. Not the worst he’s had, he thinks, but that’s not right. It is the worst he’s had. “Harry Edwina Styles, you did _not_ receive divorce papers on your birthday and let that man live.”

“Sure he didn’t know they’d be delivered on that day,” He says feebly and Nick rightfully smacks him on the arm a few times before sitting up fully, face going red with tension. 

“That filthy rat bastard. I’m going to peel the skin straight from his bones and punt his balls with a club. How could he-”

“Grimmy,” Harry sighs softly and Nick thankfully freezes, “I don’t really wanna talk about 'im anymore.”

Nick deflates and settles with his head on his propped up hand, laying lengthways alongside Harry. 

“Of course, darling. Now tell me about why your nails are so bare and what colour you want me to paint them. I may be tipsy but I can still give a bomb manicure, just you wait and see. Grimmy never disappoints.”

He’s right. Harry’s nails turn out a perfect shade of lilac despite Nick being more than just tipsy. Harry waits for them to dry before turning onto his tummy and pressing himself up. The floor tilts a little on his first steps but he’s pretty sure it’s from the head rush of laying down so long. He’s also pretty sure he’s lying to himself about that. Seven times he swears to Nick he’s not going to drive himself home before he’s allowed to have his confiscated keys. Nick places them in his palm and covers Harry’s hand in a firm hold. 

“This is the last I’ll say about it. You’re not faultless.” He tousles Harry’s mess of curls. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you deserve better.” 

Harry swallows the instant rebuttal and nods down the shame flickering in his belly. Nick leaves a sloppy kiss on his cheek and lets him go with a spread of his arms. 

“Now fly, my butterfly!”

Harry flushes and as he gets into his uber he sends a wink over his shoulder. 

Grimmy:  
Like that u think ur chrming  
u jus look goofy squinting  
Ok ok its charming  
swoon

Looking at the bright screen in the back of the dark car a warm feeling washes over him. Nick has a way of making things seem alright. 

Another message pings into his inbox. Harry goes cold at the name. His fingers fumble a second too long and his screen goes black, a little red battery lights up for a second when he tries to revive it. His heart is racing in his throat. 

By the time he’s back in the flat he’s settled on seeing it as a sign from the universe. It is well after two in the morning and if he wants to admit it or not, he’s drunk. Nothing good will come from talking to anybody right now. Least of all a certain someone.

He plugs his phone into the charger in the kitchen and forces himself to leave it alone. In the darkness of the living room he settles his hands on his hips. The tiredness he’d felt has been replaced by a haywire energy. His feet pull him down the hall, to the bedroom, into the closet. His eyes settle on the dark places he knows by memory are hollow. He flicks on the closet lights. 

His shirt got hooked on something at Nick’s and it’s missing a button or three, his hair is limp and frizzy, his five o’clock shadow is verging on uneven stubble. He’s a mess. 

“Harry Tomlinson,” he says. Just to say. Just to taste it. 

Like lightning has struck he surges into action, mind blank as he shrugs out of his jacket and dives into the back of the closet. In the nook out of sight and nearly forgotten he manages to wrestle out a stack of folded up boxes. A few decisive folds and he has one built, then another, and he grabs at the nearest rack of clothes, taking everything off of the rung in one move. They land in the box with a dull thud. 

x

“Oi oi,” a hand slaps his wrist, “I’ll be taking that, thanks,” and there goes the last slice of pizza. 

Harry sits back into the couch with a huff but he’s smiling under it at Louis’ self satisfied groan of enjoyment. It’s a rare night spent together, what with the season picking up and Harry taking on more and more at work. The telly is rambling something in the background but Harry hasn’t really been watching it for the past hour, too distracted bantering with Louis and discussing the merits of socks. 

“You’re going to have old man feet.” Harry nudges Louis’ foot with his toe. “No one wants to smell old man feet.” 

“Bet you someone would. All sorts at the games these days.”

Harry’s face scrunches knowing Louis’ right. The things he’s tripped over online, or rather was sent by Nick, were more than enough to widen his horizons much further than he ever wanted to go. If there’s one good thing about Louis’ upcoming retirement it would be the dwindle of interest in their sex life. Harry scrubs his face to rid himself of the mental images and immediately regrets it when pizza grease slicks his skin. Louis snickers into his slice while Harry pouts and rolls off of the sofa. 

His hands are in the sink of the en suite when Freddie Mercury cries out for his mother and admits murder from a tiny speaker in the living room. 

The music stops as Louis crows, “Momma Twist!”

“Hello lovie, how are my boys?” Anne’s voice rings out.

Harry’s glad to hear her voice, happier still by the enthusiasm in Louis’. Jay’s quick deterioration and passing after the wedding had been hard on all of the kids, but Harry knows Louis feels the absence of her presence most keenly. His mum wasn’t trying to replace Jay, no one could, but she called both of them regularly to be the voice of support only a mum could be. Louis launches into a story about their afternoon off. After his morning drills Harry had scooped him up and they flopped onto a patch of grass for an impromptu picnic in a rare spot of sun. 

“He had the tiniest little hands, but they were so strong! Little bugger yanked my cap and just took off. I got a video of Harry chasing after him.”

Harry wipes down his face as he chuckles at the memory of chubby cheeks and mischievous eyes of Jackson, the toddler he’d chased around. They’ve met his parents over the years on their walks around the neighbourhood, seen them go from pregnant to pram pushing and now Jackson’s bobbing around two feet like a real human and it’s kinda crazy how fast time passes if Harry thinks on it too long. 

He’s just switching off the bedroom light when his mum asks, “Can I expect little grandbabies of my own, then?”

Harry’s veins freeze over.

“No.” His voice cuts Louis off, booming through the house in a stern tone even he doesn’t recognize.

Harry closes his eyes, shoulders hunched over in the doorway of the bedroom like he can hide from the tension building. He bites his tongue until tears pool in his eyes and his hands are clenched white on the doorframe. Stupid. He’s so stupid for thinking they’d have more time until this. His answer had been so instinctual he hadn’t a moment to hold himself back. Louis fumbles through a quiet goodbye on the phone behind him. 

Silence crackles in the air. Harry lets out a shaky breath and knows he’s not ready for this, but he turns around any way and sees Louis frowning at him, standing at the other end of the hall so they’re face to face with metres of emptiness between them. 

“You don’t want kids with me?” He says it lightly, like he’s asking if Harry doesn’t want a sofa pillow. 

Harry winces at the copper taste from where he’s bit down too hard. 

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Louis shrugs in faux casualness, arms crossed like it’ll defend him when it only makes him look small. Harry hates himself for making Louis look small. 

“Say it then, because I know you want a family. I’m trying to figure out why you don’t want one with me.”

Harry shakes his head and is half grateful when his hair falls to help shield his eyes. “I never said I wanted-”

“You’ve been all over the twins every time we visit and you adore Jackson.” Louis holds his hands out like the proof is written on his palms.

“Enjoying time with kids and wanting your own are not the same thing, you can’t just assume when you haven’t asked.”

“I want kids,” Louis says firmly, pursing his lips like he’s trying not to let the angry tears fall and Harry can’t comprehend how it got this bad this quickly. “You’ve always known I want kids, since the start. I shouldn’t have had to ask because if you’ve known-” his voice cracks and Harry flinches like he’s been hit under Louis accusing glare. "You had plenty of time to bloody say something.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. It’s true. He’s got nothing to defend himself with or excuses to hide behind. He’s known, he’s always known. 

“For fucks sake, Harry.” Louis yells.

Harry’s seen him yell before, a deep growl on the pitch at other players and the ref as he demanded justice. He’s the same now, but there’s an undercurrent of anguish in those piercing blue eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest mimics the staccato pounding of Harry’s heart. He’s pretty sure he can hear Louis’ breaking from here. 

Harry can barely look at him. Louis must feel the same because his footsteps storm past him. Harry’s still standing in the hallway when Louis marches by with a bag over his shoulder and whips through the door. Harry closes his eyes at the echoing slam. 

It doesn’t get better. Louis comes home a few days later because as he tells Harry, he only packed enough for one night really and it’s a nuisance to stay elsewhere when this is his house too, damnit. Like a sticking point the topic comes up every time they talk, which always ends in frustrated tears from both of them, so they don’t talk. At the end of the day they lay in silence on opposite sides of the bed. Hours have passed by in the dark when Harry rolls out of the covers and shuffles in bare feet to the other side of the bed. He sits on the cold floor with his back against the wall, knees huddled close to rest his chin on his arms. 

Even as stressed out as he must be Louis is soft in his sleep. Harry has a pitch black void in his chest clawing bigger every time he looks at him. His Louis, his beautiful and strong Louis. His hair tangled in knots on the pillow, eyelashes curling over deep purple bags, lips bitten and chapped. Harry loves him with an aching so deep it resonates in his bones. 

“I wish I was stronger,” he mumbles into his arms, moisture collecting on his skin, “I’m sorry.” 

They haven’t touched since Louis smacked his hand out of the way for pizza. The warmth of their afternoon in the park feels a million miles away. Every glimpse he gets of the wounded look in Louis’ eyes and the cagey way he shoves out of a room when Harry enters is a knife to the chest. It is the closest he’s ever come to regretting his choice, but he can’t take it back. He won't. 

Harry sniffles and rubs his nose where it’s starting to run. This is the moment you lose him, he thinks. You’re a lying bastard and you deserve to be left. His tears are becoming not-so-silent so Harry stands on shaky limbs and pads to the washroom. Blindly he puts the shower on and falls awkwardly into the tub with wet cotton clinging to his frame, hoping the water is enough to muffle the sobs tearing through his ribcage. 

x

Pounding wakes him up. His face is glued to the floor with dried drool and he grimaces at the peeling sensation. With one shift his body makes itself known and he groans at the flood of twinging muscles a night on the hardwood has caused him. He rests his forehead to the cool surface to steal himself through a wave of nausea. The pounding continues. 

“Stop,” he whines.

This, of course, does nothing to stop the noise. His attempt to stand makes it as far as hands and knees before he’s decided the world is swaying far too much to go further. In a crawl he makes it to the front door and catches the handle on his way into a flop on his back, heavy from exertion.

“Stop knocking,” he pants to whomever is gently nudging the door open around him. 

Squinting up he sees Liam’s upside down look of judgement. Maybe Harry’s earned that. His mouth tastes like death. Liam lets go of the door to step around him and it’s weighted for fire safety so it automatically slams. A shiver runs through Harry. He whines when strong hands grab his forearms and haul him up. 

“I was going to ask why you weren’t answering your phone. Clearly, you’ve been busy.”

Liam lets go of him once he’s righted and Harry groans as he staggers against the wall. 

“Hold that thought,” he mumbles and urgently trips towards the bathroom.

After emptying his stomach and holding his head under the tap water he’s able to manage his way back to see Liam standing in the middle of the flat like it’s the place of a natural destruction. The simile is not far off. Boxes are scattered throughout the place, half filled with whatever was close by. 

“I gather you got his text?” Liam says leadingly. 

Harry scratches the back of his head on the way to the kitchen and pauses mid step to crack his back. A painful pop reminds him he’s not twenty anymore and he needs to avoid sleeping on the floor for the rest of his life if it’s going to feel like this. 

“No, phone’s been dead since I left Nick’s.” 

Liam sighs in an eerily similar way as his mother, that ‘disappointed in you because you know better’ sigh. Harry angles towards him with a hand on an open cupboard door. He could let it go, but there’s still a piece of him that doesn’t want to brush over things. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout what I said, about the girls.” 

He is. He’s really sorry, actually. He knows Liam is sensitive about his relationships and it was the worst place to poke, even if he was upset with him. Liam waves him off and Harry frowns, hoping he can remember to do something nice for his friend when he’s more cognitive. He keeps scanning the cupboards and is thankful he hadn’t made it to the kitchen with the boxes last night. He’s not looking forward to sorting what’s been packed and repacking it later. Finally he finds the kettle, in an obvious spot on the worktop near the fridge. He blames the fact that they’re both silver appliances and he’s still figuring out how to function. Liam settles onto a stool while Harry putters around getting mugs. 

Liam rests his forearms on the worktop and says, “I dunno how much you wanna hear about it, but he won.” 

The words take a moment to make sense and when they do Harry narrowly avoids pouring scalding hot water on his hand. 

“He won France?” 

As soon as the immediate danger of hot water is gone by placing the kettle down he whips his head to Liam, who’s obviously trying not to look too excited or happy or whatever he thinks will bother Harry. Harry is the furthest thing from bothered. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he breathes through his nose as he paces around the island. His panicked eyes scan for his phone. 

He barely sees the timid text confirming Liam’s words before he slams the exclamation point as many times as he has the patience to before sending. It’s the first form of communication they’ve had since the papers. Harry’s man enough to admit that this is bigger than them, and he’s been supporting this dream for so long he can’t help but feel proud even if it’s a little bittersweet. 

“What did you say?” Liam leans over further and cranes his neck. 

“Thought you didn’t want to get involved?” He arches his brow but relents at Liam’s non-pulsed expression. “I didn’t say anything, here.” He holds the phone out to Liam, wiggles it when Liam’s face furrows like he’s never seen a mobile before. 

“You took your ring off.”

Harry puts the phone onto the counter and busies himself with the mugs so he doesn’t have to meet Liam’s sad puppy eyes.. 

“Yeah, uh… seemed like the thing to do.” He hooks a stool with his foot and scoots it closer until he can sit on it, pushing a mug of tea towards Liam. Liam, who’s still frowning like he’s dropped a cone of icecream on the floor. “That alright with you?”

Liam shakes the far away look off his face. 

“Of course, I mean… it’s just weird.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like too long ago Gemma was tying them to my shorts so we didn’t drop them in the water.” 

Harry snorts at the memory of Liam tentatively dipping his feet into the surf as the party of four waited, already waist deep. Eloping with Liam and Gemma as their witnesses had seemed like the easiest option for a pair of twenty two year olds wanting a breather after university. Choosing to do the ceremony in the water hadn’t been his idea, but it definitely made things memorable. 

Liam taps his fingers on the worktop offbeat and takes more than one try to look less than desperately curious when he asks in a false casual voice, “It’s done, then? You signed the papers?” 

Harry looks away and sips his tea with a grimace. Too bitter. He’s never been one for tea and he can’t recall what drove him to make it. 

“I might have shredded them,” he says to his reflection in the mug and tries to resist the pull of Liam’s wide eyes. “By accident.”

“Mate.” 

Harry sighs at the tone of that one word, knowing what’s coming.

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep trying? Like maybe even a little?”

Harry doesn’t need to go too deep to know the honest truth. He misses him, but he’s got a feeling getting back together would be worse than being alone. 

“No. I know you keep saying we gotta talk, but that’s the issue. We have talked, for _years_ , and now we’re just…” he plops a sugar cube into his tea in a desperate attempt to make it palatable. “Out of things to say.”

The sugar has done nothing for it, the tea is a lost cause and Harry slowly slides it away from him with a wince at the sound. God, he feels like roadkill. 

Liam’s turned to face him by now, his knees bumping Harry’s thigh as he asks with his blunt grace. “So what’s it really about?”

Harry slumps over until his forehead rests on the polished stone. He picks at the lavender polish on his nails. Something’s been scratching at the back of his mind since he woke up, something persistent under the ache of his hangover. 

“I don't know how to be alone.” His voice is so small Liam probably can’t even hear him, but he says it anyway because it’s been resonating in his chest all morning. “I don’t know if I can love again.”

A broad hand firmly smooths over the curve of his hunched back. It’s comfort is insurmountable. 

“You practically radiate light,” Harry hears Liam shuffle around until an arm swoops around his stomach and he’s being hugged from the side, Liam’s head resting on his back. “You’re bursting with love, H. Sometimes it hurts, but you owe it to the universe to let it out anyway.”

Harry’s caught off guard by the earnesty. The words float around in his mind. Liam’s naive if he really thinks that, but it’s nice of him to try to find the right things to say.

“Hey Li?” He murmurs into the counter. Liam hums, his cheek vibrating on Harry’s shoulder blade. “You should put that in a song.”

They chuckle softly and it vibrates between them to ease out of the serious moment. Liam’s not really hugging him anymore, more just resting against him. Harry doesn't mind, his eyes have already drooped closed. He’s not sure what time it is or how long he slept, but it can’t have been long with the way gravity seems tenfold stronger.

“Blame the studio mode. Never thought I’d get sick of those four walls, but I kinda used you as an excuse to ditch out of today's session.”

Liam tries to play it off and yet still there’s a false note to it letting Harry know this is it. The thing he was looking for earlier. 

“We should go,” Harry says, regretting it only a little because he still feels like rubbish. 

Liam perks up, letting Harry also regain proper vertical position and confirm it was the right thing to say by the hopeful glint in Liam’s eyes. 

“Yeah?”

Harry smiles genuinely, regret vanished despite how he still has to put a hand on Liam’s shoulder to keep the world from spinning too harshly. 

“I’ve had enough of my own drama, time to listen to you moan about your sex fantasies.”

Liam nearly knocks him off the stool, both laughing as Harry scurries out of reach and imitates Liam’s last moaning single with a cruder version of lyrics.

On Monday Harry’s still humming one of Liam’s songs as he greets Naomi. He takes a solid ten minutes chatting to her about an arthouse film she saw on the weekend. James Corden, the private investment banker who owns the first office in the hall, calls his name as he passes by just as Harry fully expected he would. 

“Harry! You’ve been a busy little bee these days, how’ve you been?” 

James’ cheeks are rosy and his smile wide. A steaming mug decorated in his children's faces is perched next to his elbow. Harry shrugs with a hint of guilt. The man is a laugh and a half and Harry usually enjoys their chats a few times a week, but James is the type of person you never want to tell bad things to. He cares just a little too much. Last time Harry mentioned being poorly James had shown up the next day with a full lunch kit of homemade soup and DVD’s he thought Harry would want to watch while resting, offering to do his shopping so he wouldn’t have to leave the house. He’s one of the most overwhelmingly genuine people Harry knows. 

“Doing okay, hopefully finishing up a project any day now.” 

He steps fully into the office and up to James’ desk full of frames and knicknacks. 

“Fantastic! Oh, you’ve gotta see this. Max had a talent show and Julia thinks it’s her influence but I’m certain he’s taken after his father.” He winks and pulls up a video of a chubby blond boy doing clumsy magic tricks in a large top hat. It knocks down into his eyes every time he moves his head. “Look at that, my boy is absolutely brilliant.” 

Harry tries to swallow the thick air. Beside him James is captivated by the little boy on screen and Harry can tell he’s probably mesmerized every second of it, yet he still chuckles along, completely charmed by his son. He’s seen a million videos and pictures of Jame’s children, has met them a handful of times even, but today a sourness twists in his stomach. The video is tortuously long. James drops the phone while tucking it away and talking about having to convince his son a stuffed rabbit was better than a living one, giving Harry a much needed moment to steady his pulse and run his hand through his hair. 

“Very cute,” he comments with the barest hint of a smile as he eases towards the door. “I forgot there’s an email I have to reply to within the hour.” 

James pops up from where he’s kneeled on the floor to look for his phone. 

“Oh bugger. All right well don’t be a stranger this time, you know you’re always welcome to stop by.” And James means it too, his face openly heartfelt. He looks a lot like his son. 

“Thank you, James.” Harry manages before he finally turns away and lets out a shaky breath, his face dropping into a severe frown. 

His office is a tidy sense of chaos. Papers lay in loose puddles along the corners and a few scattered groups of drawing utensils lay shoved off to the sides. An itch rolls under his skin, a pressing need to clear everything from sight not too dissimilar from the frenzy he’d felt Friday night. He dumps half of his tools in a jumbled mess in the drawer and collects the papers into three prim piles on the cleared worktop. Everything in his shredder and rubbish bin gets tossed. The two old mugs he’s never seen before are returned to the break room. Stepping back into his office he regains a sense of calm. 

There are notifications from Zayn, but they have nothing to do with work. Somewhere along the way they struck up an email chain that started life as a follow up to their lunch and wound into a recipe exchange coupled with chatting about their favourite modern artists. It was odd, but Harry was kind of enjoying this turn of events as their growing friendship coincided with a decrease in work for Harry. With no new adjustments or additions he powers through a thorough overview.

Naomi comes in with ‘it’s not your birthday’ biscuits on her way out. She confesses she bought them on her lunch hour because she burned the batch she’d attempted and Harry valiantly tries not to get a little weepy over the sweetness of the gesture. He leaves not long after her with a cleared ‘to-do’ list for the first time in months. 

x

Louis calls them ‘his girls’ and Harry is known to do the same. Their twenty smiling faces greet him from the frame by the closet when he comes home. Even though they change a handful at a time every year Harry could point each of them out in a crowd without hesitation. It’s not quite the same, but they’re happy. 

Louis is happy. 

His side of the hooks is overflowing with track jackets and windbreakers with bright bold ‘COACH’ stitched into them. Harry toes his shoes off and privately thinks not for the first time that it suits Louis better. The youngest of his siblings are finally grown, most with families of their own now, and even with the stress of wrangling attitudes and expectations there’s a youthful spark in his eyes when watching his team dominate a field.

It’s a Saturday, the designated day of errands for Harry and work for Louis. He’s almost done, and then he’ll meet Louis at the field with soup in a thermos and watch the last round of drills pretending not to stare at Louis’ bum. All these years and he still can’t resist it. 

Harry’s got an armload of groceries halfway to the kitchen when he freezes. There’s a sound coming from deeper in the house.

“Lou?”

A sob cuts off, the absence of rustling bags allowing the sound to echo. Harry drops the bags. With his heart pounding in his eardrums he rounds into the kitchen. The world stops turning. Louis’ balled up in the corner on the floor. Harry approaches slowly and crouches in front of him, struggling with his own breath as he runs his hand through Louis' soft locks. The wavering words are ash in his mouth. He’s hollow already, like a puppet going through the motions.

“Love, what is it?”

Louis doesn’t need to tell him that the doctor he didn’t tell Harry about called while he was running in to fill his water bottle, that he’d lied about being alone, that it’s called acute myelogenous leukemia. It’s aggressive and the survival rate is low. After this they will fall apart twice more, once in the shower and again swaddled in the rosey duvet as sorrow pours from their skin, and that’s when they’ll talk. Harry knows because he’s already been through it once before. 

But right now they’re on the cold floor of the kitchen and Louis’ eyes filled with the ocean look up to him and it’s not fair. It’s not fair. They’ve had their fair share of meltdowns as life had its way with them. In the bedroom, sometimes in the bathroom, where intimate things happened and doors could be closed. Not on the kitchen floor. This grief clawing them with crooked hooks was not meant to be experienced somewhere so brightly exposed. 

Harry only gets a glimpse of the red and shiny mess of Louis' face before the man is falling heavily into his arms and shaking apart. He hiccups through the one cursed word. 

“Cancer.”

Harry ducks his face into Louis’ neck and squeezes his eyes closed, tasting salt and the indescribable essence of Louis. His arms go tight around the man like he’s trying to hold a shadow. Louis hands grip him painfully until his nails dig into Harry’s skin, his breath hot and wet and snotty on Harry’s shoulder with every uncontrollable gasp. Whatever he needs Harry lets him take. Every atom of Harry’s being yearns to sink into Louis, to give him everything. Everything. 

Not yet, Harry pleads with the universe. Time has sifted through his hands, it wasn’t supposed to happen yet. 

His lips move silently against the soft skin of Louis’ neck, two words on repeat he can’t shake. 

Please. Stay.

x

Harry’s eyes are crusted over when he wakes the next morning. He rolls over in a bed empty but for two matching pillows and Harry, who feels like his soul is resonating with a pain deeper than anything he could have fathomed yesterday. It takes several minutes and a hot towel to painlessly unclump his eyelashes. He buttons his shirt up slowly, losing track of his thoughts halfway with his fingers stumble over the blank skin of his stomach. He’s never felt off about his reflection but now the sight of it makes him feel unbalanced, like he’s lacking a sense of symmetry. He rolls back his shoulders to knock the thoughts out of mind. 

A blaring horn jarrs him out numbness during his commute. Some disgruntled woman has pulled up beside him and is leaning out of her driver side window to yell at him. 

“Get yer head outta yer arse.”

Her mini cooper speads past him and Harry realises the light is green. Probably has been for a while. He stomps on the gas and winces at the harsh rev of the engine as he jostles into action. He sits in his car long after he’s parked. Sweat starts to gather under his clothes, the sun and humidity uncomfortably filling the car. His eyes catch on his plaque glinting in the light. The shape of his name feels unfamiliar. Wrong.

“Fuck the universe.” His voice is hoarse and his throat sore. 

He keeps his head down but Naomi’s cheerful call still rings out.

“Harry! Your last scheduled appointment with Zayn is today. Think this’ll really be it?” 

“Yeah, uh.” He shifts in his coat, eyes unable to focus in the brightly lit front hall. Why is there so much glass? Everything’s so reflective. The last thing he wants to see is his face. “Dunno.”

He ignores the questioning tilt of her head and runs a hand through his tangled hair on his way to his office. He slumps into his office chair. The symbols on his computer screen refuse to come into focus. He’s still staring blindly at them when Zayn walks in with a little girl. 

“Hey Harry.”

“Hi,” He says automatically, spinning to face the pair. He looks at the little girl holding the artist’s hand, trying to understand how she fits in. 

“Gigi, say hello to Harry.”

The girl waves bashfully and curls into Zayn’s knee as she mumbles, “Hi Harry.” 

“Gigi?” Harry looks at Zayn, then back down to the little girl with caramel eyes and long lashes. She’s so small. The moment has dragged on too long when she wavers like she wants to fully duck behind Zayn’s leg. It kicks him into gear and he stands. “Right, yes. It is very lovely to meet you, Gigi.”

Zayn looks down and pats her shoulder. “She wanted to see the pictures. Don’t let the act fool you, she’s very excited.”

“Of course.” Harry nods, hands on his hips. 

Harry looks at the monitor. It’s still on the opening login screen. He spins back to them.

“Did you meet Naomi on the way in? I bet if you ask very nicely she’ll make us some tea while I pull things up. Sorry, straight lost track of the time.” 

Zayn cocks a brow at him before kneeling down to the girl to ask. “You okay with asking the pretty lady, sweets?” 

Gigi nods at her father with a big smile and dashes out the door. 

“No running!” Zayn calls and they watch her little figure stutter into a skip through the frosted glass. 

Zayn shakes his head. Harry doesn’t realise he’s watching until Zayn’s eyes meet his. He jerks back to the monitor and tries to remember the log in information he’s entered on autopilot every morning since graduation. 

“You okay?”

Harry inwardly winces at the flightiness of his movements, knowing he’s coming off as twitchy. 

“Yeah, sorry uh.” His eyes flit down to Zayn’s fingers. Bare. “I feel a bit slow. Thought Gigi was your girlfriend or… ” He shrugs, not sure where he was going with it. His fingers somehow find the right combination to gain access to his own computer. 

Zayn glances down the hall and steps closer to Harry. 

“Her mum passed last year.”

The breath punches out of Harry and a sardonic note in the back of his head says he should have seen that coming.

“I’m… “ And what he means to say is ‘sorry for your loss’ but what comes out is, “I can’t imagine raising a kid on my own.” 

It’s a little more honest than he means to be. Zayn shrugs, because that’s what Zayn does, and runs his thumb over his lips. 

“It was harder on my wife. We knew she was sick for a long time so she knew she wouldn’t be around for Gigi when she grew up. I think that devastated her a lot more than the illness.”

Harry knows his face is doing something but he feels no control over it when storm clouds have invaded his mind. He tries to focus instead on the screen in front of him. 

“That’s terrible, I’m…” The mouse on the screen pauses. The memory of a voice he’s never heard echoes in his head, _‘You don’t want kids with me?’_ But Harry’s always wanted kids. Always. 

He rubs his brow with his free hand and continues to slowly bring up the rendered 3D visualisation of the home, a task that’s starting to seem impossible when every click takes the concentration of a rocket scientist. 

“That’s terrible,” He repeats dully.

“You sure you’re okay?” 

Harry meets the man’s eyes and there’s something about Zayn, something about his delicate features and uncomplicated presence that convinces Harry to be honest. 

“Had a few vivid dreams lately. Hard to shake.” He waves vaguely with his fingers like he needs any more demonstration on how scattered he feels. Zayn opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but grunts instead as Gigi runs into the back of her father's legs. She wraps her skinny arms around him when he lifts her up. Naomi comes in a second later with a tea tray. 

“As you requested, sire.” She faux curtsies at Harry and he’s got a feeling he’ll need to send another round of flowers to thank her for playing along.

Finally the file has loaded and Harry gets up so Zayn can sit with Gigi in his lap. They navigate through it and Gigi particularly loves the slide. Watching her take in the design with unhindered excitement things start to make sense. Why the counter was lowered five inches, why there’s a new reading nook, why one of the closets extended the length of one of the bedrooms. The additional en suite. Zayn being adamant about the downstairs windows so there wouldn’t be a blind spot in the backyard. 

When they’ve gone through it Harry asks her with a sudden desperation, “What do you think, your highness?” 

And his whole career might not literally hinge on this moment but it sure feels like it. She pauses in fake thought, probably enjoying the rapt attention Harry’s giving her too much to give it up so quickly. 

“Splendid!” She bursts and claps her hands. 

Harry tries to hide the wave of relief her squealing brings him. The smirk he gets from Zayn tells him he’s failed, but the fact that he hasn’t collapsed from holding his breath for so long should be a feat appreciated on it’s own. 

They set Gigi up with a few pencils and paper to doodle and take the time to delve into every detail Zayn can think to ask about. He doesn’t ask with the analytical eye of caution, his tone remains curious and lighthearted in the same way Harry’s starting to realize he’s always been. Perhaps, Harry admits to himself, there had been a bit, a pinch, a hint of projection when it came to his perception of Zayn. 

Everything is perfect. Of course it is, because Harry’s fucking good at what he does and Zayn’s, well, Zayn Malik. Anything he has a hand in is going to be brilliant. With satisfaction Harry locks the blueprint. Gigi hands him a roughly folded piece of paper when Zayn tells her it’s time to go. In squiggly penmanship arenher name and a large number seven. 

“You have to come ‘cause I’m the princess and you’re the prince, so you have to,” she says. 

Harry looks helplessly at Zayn. 

“Her birthday party is in a few weeks, but that’s not how we ask nicely, is it?” He explains and tilts his head at Gigi who rightfully looks abashed. 

“Mr. Styles, will you come to my party?” She says in a recited way and Zayn sighs. 

“And the magic word?”

“Puh-leeease?” 

Harry can’t help the laugh that slips at her obvious exhaustion at having to use manners. 

“I’ll be there, princess,” he says. 

The crush of a hug he receives is unexpected. Gigi only lets go after he pinky promises to really attend her party. Zayn mentions emailing the details later and together they tidy up the things Gigi had been amusing herself with. They’re heading out with Gigi resting her head on Zayn’s shoulder, eyes half mast from a waning sugar rush, and Zayn looks back at him. 

“Get some sleep, yeah?”

Harry’s attention is caught on the way Zayn’s hand automatically holds Gigi close, the little rub of his thumb on her back. The way she sweetly clings to him. 

“Yeah.”

When Zayn leaves Harry pulls up the search engine. Seconds later the blue painting takes up his screen. It’s easy to see now that one of the figures is smaller than the other, that the one sitting in the dark isn't blurred by shadow, they’re near translucent, like they’re fading. Disappearing. Yet it’s the millimetres of space between their hands that pulls at Harry’s heart the most. Harry feels it down to his bones. He could never watch that gap grow.

The echo of a voice in the hall jars him. He recognizes it and yet can’t place it until the words come through. 

“-till his husband, if you bothered to check. Mind your own and let me through.”

Footsteps and a blurred figure on the other side of glass walls get closer and Harry paws at his face, praying he didn’t actually have tears in his eyes as he pulled up the screensaver just in time for his husband to walk through the door. He stops a few steps in, hands on his hips and a foot forward like he’s the one in need of stability right now. 

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry stands with a hand in his hair, rounding his desk and leaning on it to keep him grounded. Somehow it’s not as weird as it should be. Other than the celebratory text they haven’t talked in over a month, but that’s what they agreed on when they decided to split, and Harry’s not sure the alternative would have been better. He’s missed the man, and it’s still a bit hard to swallow that he’s failed at being a husband, but the time apart has solidified his opinion that this was the right move for both of them. 

“Congratulations on the Open de France,” He says and nearly rolls his eyes at the sheepish shrug he gets in return. He makes a point of meeting his blue eyes straight on. “I mean it, Niall. You deserve it.”

Niall nods in thanks, a little pleased smile on his lips. He's just as stupidly charming as the day Harry met him. They'd been two foolish kids pretending they weren't panicking about their futures, and they'd used all that pent up energy on each other. It had been exciting until they'd grown up and had no more energy to give. 

Niall's face creases with concern. “Did you get them? I couldn’t hand them to you meself and I didn’t realise they wouldn’t go to the flat until they’d already left, sorry if it caused a deal. I know we was thinking one of us would keep the flat but I’ve got an eye on a place.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels like Harry knows he does when he feels awkward. Harry remembers the sour taste of bile when he’d gotten the papers and pushes the memory away with a shake of his head. It could have been the other way around just as easily if Harry had picked heads when they flipped a coin. 

“Yeah, I uh…” his eyes catch on the empty shredder bin beneath his desk. “Actually I’m gonna need another copy. I got the ring though, but you know you can keep it. You were the proposer, I think that’s how it works.” He purses in thought. Is that how it works? 

“Nah, I dunno.” Niall shrugs, hands still in pockets. “Just got a shiny trophy, didn’t I? Buy yourself something nice.” 

Harry ducks his head and catches sight of where a silver frame used to sit on his desk. 

He smiles and says with a hint of bittersweet fondness, “Maybe I’ll go on a trip.”

“I hear Hawaii’s real nice.” Niall winks and sure, it’s a little forced, but it’s good. Maybe it’ll be weird for a while as they adjust, but Harry can imagine a future where they don’t twitch every time someone mentions their past. They’re not quite there yet. For now their eyes are both a little damp and they do each other the courtesy of not mentioning it. 

“I’ll resend the pages,” Naill says, angling towards the hall. 

He stops with his back pressed against the clear glass of the door long enough for Harry to meet his look. There are so many things Harry wants to say his mind feels full, but when he opens his mouth it’s empty. 

Niall manages first. “I’m glad it was you, Harry.” 

He ducks out before Harry can respond. He’s still leaning against the desk when he realises what he wanted to say. 

“I don’t regret it,” He says to the empty room. 

To the universe. 

x

Zayn’s apartment is packed with children and parents alike. 

The masterpiece house is still in construction, although hopefully nearing completion if the contractor can be trusted, and it’s interesting to reflect on how aspects of this place have sewn their way into the design they’d worked on. Harry feels a little out of place but relatively enamoured with Gigi’s excitement as she shows off her new extensive doll house. It has a slide, of course. The cupcakes are worth the visit alone, and he’s completely unfazed by the hot pink icing and has to hold himself back from eating more than three. Zayn promises to email him the bakery name.

He’s washing off pink icing from between his fingers in the loo when he hears the party start singing Happy Birthday. Voices are still clashing when he goes to the kitchen to avoid the crush of people congregated in the dining room. He grabs a bottle from the counter just for something to occupy his hands and takes a sip of the worst beer he’s ever going to taste in his life. Someone laughs and when he looks up all he sees is a man with the ocean captured in his eyes. 

Words tumble from his lips dumbly as he watches the other man drink his own sip. It’s the same. All of it is the same. 

He finds himself leaning heavily into the counter as the guy comes back with a cup of kids punch, apparently the only thing strong enough to wash out whatever rubbish they just tried, and stands next to him. Closer than someone might normally but not too weird in a party setting. 

His voice is possibly the sexiest thing Harry’s ever heard when he says, 'Louis Tomlinson,' with a cute little nod just like Harry knew he would. 

“Fucking…” Louis arches a brow at him and Harry gets with the programme, “Harry Styles.”

He gulps down the punch and wishes desperately it had alcohol content. Beside him Louis settles comfortably with an amused tilt to his head. 

“So, Fuckin’ Harry Styles, y'know anything about this thing called football?”

Harry’s laugh is a little sharp and a little awed. Something warm is pooling in his gut as he shakes his head ruefully and leans a tad closer. 

“I’ve a feeling you’ll tell me all about it.”

“Too right.” And when Louis smiles his cheeks push up so his eyes are squinted near shut. 

Harry has a feeling he’ll dedicate his life to making this man smile. 

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe I wanted this to be 50k+? Seriously I don’t know how you all do it. I weaved two narratives and STILL came neatly to my favourite number without even trying. It’s like I’m just forever going to write ~22k no matter what. Also, I totally wrote this before the news about Gigi and Zayn. I’m so happy for them and I hope it’s not weird I used her name, I just wanted it to be a surprise kidfic!
> 
> Find me and graphics for this fic on tumblr:  
> https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/daydreamer
> 
> Comments are lovely, just like you!  
> Kudos are grand <3  
> xx


	2. Playlist

Playlist for Daydreamer

everything i wanted Billie Eilish  
Daydreamer Adele  
when the party's over Billie Eilish  
Crazy For You Adele  
Lovely Billie Eilish  
First Love Adele  
i love you Billie Eilish  
ocean eyes Billie Eilish  
Lover, Please Stay Nothing But Thieves  
listen before i go Billie Eilish

(is anyone surprised? no. no I think not.) 

Bonus Track : Darkest Shade of Blue - Young the Giant

I wanted to share this because these songs have grown on me so much throughout this writing process. Now that it's posted I can easily see the areas I could have worked more on (like how I desperately need to start writing better description. Blame my old screenwriting profs who tore away all my purple prose) but I'm happy enough with this to move on and try better with the next project of mine. Honestly don't know what I'll do now that I have no reason to listen to these ten songs on repeat all day everyday... looks like I need a new muse!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading it all if you made it this far. 
> 
> Find me and graphics for this fic on tumblr:  
> https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/daydreamer  
> 
> 
> Comments are the only way I will know how this fic made you feel, please interact with me I love you all <3  
> Kudos are like warm hugs and we could all use some hugs right now <3  
> xx


End file.
